It,-.  ;  .^"^ 


1 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


f 
I 


UNIVERSITY  cf  CALIFORNIA 

LO.^  AIHiELES 
U«KARY 


n 


A  Modern  Reader  and  Speaker 


MODERN 

Reader  and  Speaker 


EDITED  BY 


GEORGE     RIDDLE 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  AND  COMPANY 
CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK 
MDCCCCH 


in:^8oi 


COPYRIGHT  1899,  BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


1^ 

» 

t 


TO 

ADAMS  SHERMAN  HILL, 

BOYLSTON  PROFESSOR  OF  RHETORIC  AND  ORATORY  AT 
HARVARD  UNIVERSITY,  IN  GRATEFUL  REMEMBRANCE 
OF  HIS  HELP  AND  SYMPATHY   IN  MY  TENTATIVE  DAYS. 


GENERAL  CONTENTS 

Detailed  lists  of  contents  will  be  found  at  the  begitming 
of  each  division  of  the  book. 

PAGE 

Narrative  and  Colloquial  Selections        .  .       i 

Orations     ........  79 

Dramatic  and  Humorous  Selections           .  .   297 

Poetry 461 


PREFACE 

IN    adding  another  "Reader  and  Speaker"  to  the 
long  list  of  books  on  "Elocution,"  "Expression," 
or  what  not,  I  have  not  been  animated  by  the  spirit  of 
any  of  Dickens's  "gen'lmen,"  who  went  "down  Tom- 
;,all-Alone's,  a-prayin',''  only  to  say  "as  the  t'other  wuns 
i: prayed  wrong. ' ' 

^  I  have  had  in  view,  especially  in  the  Orations,  the 
'^union  of  that  which  seems  modern  in  the  works  of  the 
told,  well-tried  authors,  with  the  literature  of  to-day. 
^I  think  that  all  the  selections  are  adapted  to  the  mod- 
^ern  natural  method  of  speaking,  by  which  the  speaker 
'i'seeks  to  directly  move  and  persuade  his  hearers,  in 
'  ,man-to-man  fashion  and  without  manner  formally 
^assumed  for  effect. 

I  I  believe  that  a  teacher  of  reading  and  speaking,  to 
:rbe  completely  effective,  should  be  present  in  the  flesh, 
and,  therefore,  I  have  not  attempted  to  give  any 
instructions  as  to  interpretation.  Moreover,  this 
country  is  fortunate  in  possessing  able  and  competent 
teachers,  who  employ  different  methods,  perhaps,  but 
who  all  lead  their  pupils  through  various  means  to  one 
great  end :  truth  and  naturalness  of  expression. 

While  my  primary  object  has  been  to  choose  pieces 
adapted  to  reading  aloud,  I  have  not,  I  trust,  lost  sight 
of  another  vital  point — the  choice  of  interesting  pieces 
of  every  description. 


PREFACE 

I  have  been  greatly  assisted  by  the  generous  permis- 
sion of  authors  and  publishers  to  use  copious  extracts 
from  copyrighted  books.  Such  unusual  courtesy  as 
has  been  extended  to  me  will,  I  am  confident,  make 
the  perusers  of  the  contents  of  this  book  exclaim  with 
Trinculo:  "If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in  my 
head,  here's  a  goodly  sight." 

GEORGE   RIDDLE. 


Narrative  and  Colloquial 
Selections 


THE  SITUATION  OF  A  UNIVERSITY.  From 
the  Inaugural  Address  delivered  at  Tufts  College. 
Reprinted  with  the  permission  of  President  Capen. 
By  ELMER  HEWITT  CAPEN. 

IN  considering  the  many  instrumentalities  through 
which  an  institution  of  the  higher  learning  rise 
to  its  greatest  efficiency,  all  writers  who  have  given 
profound  attention  to  the  subject  agree  in  attaching 
great  importance  to  Situation.  It  must  be  in  a  fair 
spot  to  which  both  nature  and  art  have  lent  their 
charms.  It  must  be  retired,  away  from  the  bustle  and 
confusion  of  the  great  world  where  the  mind  may 
freely  give  itself  to  undisturbed  reflections.  Yet  it 
must  be  near  some  centre  of  life  and  trade,  and  espe- 
cially does  it  need  to  feel  the  power  of  a  higher  intel- 
lectual life  surging  around  it  and  ever  lifting  it  to 
nobler  and  grander  attainments.  The  image  of 
Athens,  which,  for  more  than  a  thousand  years,  was 
the  intellectual  mistress  of  the  civilized  world,  whose 
immortal  teachers 

"Still  rule  our  spirits  from  their  urns," 

rises  before  us  in  all  her  loveliness  and  beauty.  We 
think  how  she,  by  her  matchless  climate,  which 
fostered  poetic  dreams  and  made  life  seem  like  one 
long  midsummer's  day;  by  her  indescribable  atmos- 
phere, which  gave  to  the  marbles  of  Praxiteles  the 
richness  and  warmth  of  Titian's  coloring,  and  relieved 
the  severe  angles  of  her  temples,  so  that  they  seemed 
to  be  filled  with  a  depth  and  softness  of  feeling  unsur- 
passed by  the  most  ornate  of  mediaeval  cathedrals ;  by 
her  contiguity  to  the  sea  and  her  relations  to  the 
mysterious  East;   by  her  commercial  importance;    by 

5 


6  The   SITUATION   of  a   UNIVERSITY 

her  marvellous  language,  softer  and  sweeter  and  more 
flexible  and  of  wider  compass  than  the  tones  of  an 
organ;  by  her  free  institutions  and  public  spirit;  by 
her  great  men;  by  her  inspiring  traditions  and  her 
wonderful  mythology,  was  fitted  to  be  the  University 
of  all  nations.  We  think  also  of  the  grand  facilities 
she  had  within  herself  for  noble  schools ;  of  her  groves 
which  Cimon  planted;  of  her  beautiful  public  build- 
ings which  Pericles  erected  and  Phidias  adorned;  of 
her  porticoes,  surrounding  the  Agora,  filled  with 
superb  paintings  and  delicious  sculptures.  We  think 
of  her  sweet  poets  and  eloquent  orators,  whose  inspir- 
ing words  thrill  and  sway  our  hearts  to-day  as  they 
thrilled  and  swayed  the  living  multitudes  to  whom  they 
were  addressed.  But  above  all  we  think  of  her  great 
philosophers,  to  whom  even  kings  came  for  instruc- 
tion, and  who  were  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  youths  out 
of  every  nation  under  heaven.  We  seem  to  see  them  in 
their  chosen  retreats  just  outside  the  din  of  the  great 
city,  yet  where  they  could  hear  the  drowsy  murmur  of 
its  bustle  and  traffic,  directing,  by  the  compass  of  their 
learning,  the  fascinatio.ns  of  their  culture  and  the  force 
of  their  enthusiasm,  the  minds  of  their  hearers  to  the 
most  sublime  contemplations.  Those  were  the  condi- 
tions in  which  both  nature  and  art  combined  to  pro- 
duce a  degree  of  intellectual  refinement  without  a  rival 
either  in  ancient  or  modern  times. 

But  wherever,  in  any  age,  similar  results  have  been 
achieved  it  has  been  under  a  combination  of  like 
advantages.  I  will  not  pause  now  to  cite  instances.  I 
need  only  point  you  to  our  own  fortunate  position.  The 
New  World  herself  does  not  embrace  a  lovelier  spot 
than  this.     On  whichever  side  the  eye  turns,  it  com 


By  ELMER   HEWITT   CAPEN  7 

mands  a  fairer  prospect  than  that  which  inflamed  the 
heart  of  Lot  when  he  beheld  all  the  plain  of  Jordan 
fertile  and  well  watered  everywhere.  It  is  in  close 
contact,  too,  with  a  great  commercial  metropolis — a 
grand  city  which  presents  many  aspects  of  resemblance 
to  ancient  Athens,  not  the  least  of  which  is  her  intense 
intellectual  activity,  and  her  schools  and  teachers 
whose  renown  is  co-extensive  with  civilization.  Just 
here,  then,  is  the  place  for  a  great  college,  however 
modestly  it  may  assert  its  claims  in  the  beginning,  to 
grow  up  and  flourish.  Surely  it  does  not  require  any 
very  painful  stretch  of  the  faculties  to  see,  in  a  future 
not  greatly  remote,  this  hill  crowned  with  noble  archi- 
tecture, peeping  out  from  amid  embowering  trees,  and 
to  hear  the  thronging  footsteps  of  youths  coming  from 
the  East  and  from  the  West,  from  the  North  and  from 
the  South,  to  enjoy  the  sweet  repose  of  its  quiet  shades^, 
and  to  feel  the  kindling  impulse  of  its  mental  life. 


MORNING  AND  AFTERNOON  CHAPEL.  From 
"Tom  Brown's  School  Days."  By  THOMAS 
HUGHES. 

THE  chapel-bell  began  to  ring  at  a  quarter  to 
eleven,  and  Tom  got  in  early  and  took  his  place 
in  the  lowest  row,  and  watched  all  the  other  boys  come 
in  and  take  their  places,  filling  row  after  row;  and 
tried  to  construe  the  Greek  text  which  was  inscribed 
over  the  door  with  the  slightest  possible  success,  and 
wondered  which  of  the  masters,  who  walked  down  the 
chapel  and  took  their  seats  in  the  exalted  boxes  at  the 
end,  would  be  hia  lord.  And  then  came  the  closing  of 
the  doors,  and  the  Doctor  in  his  robes,  and  the  service, 
which,  however,  didn't  impress  him  much,  for  his  feel- 
ing of  wonder  and  curiosity  was  too  strong.  And  the 
boy  on  one  side  of  him  was  scratching  his  name  on  the 
oak  panelling  in  front,  and  he  couldn't  help  watching 
to  see  what  the  name  was,  and  whether  it  was  well 
scratched;  and  the  boy  on  the  other  side  went  to  sleep 
and  kept  falling  against  him ;  and  on  the  whole, 
though  many  boys  even  in  that  part  of  the  School  were 
serious  and  attentive,  the  general  atmosphere  was  by 
no  means  devotional;  and  when  he  got  out  into  the 
close  again,  he  didn't  feel  at  all  comfortable,  or  as  if 
he  had  been  to  church. 

But  at  afternoon  chapel  it  was  quite  another  thing. 
He  had  spent  the  time  after  dinner  in  writing  home  to 
his  mother,  and  so  was  in  a  better  frame  of  mind;  and 
his  first  curiosity  was  over,  and  he  could  attend  more 
to  the  service.  As  the  hymn  after  the  prayers  was 
being  sung,  and  the  chapel  was  getting  a  little  dark, 
he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  he  had  been  really  wor- 
shipping.    And  then  came  that  great  event  in  his,  as 

8 


By  THOMAS    HUGHES  ^ 

in  every  Rugby  boy's  life  of  that  day,  the  first  serrnon 
from  the  Doctor. 

More  worthy  pens  than  mine  have  described  that 
scene.  The  oak  pulpit  standing  out  by  itself  above  the 
School  seats.  The  tall  gallant  form,  the  kindling  eye, 
the  voice,  now  soft  as  the  low  notes  of  a  flute,  now 
clear  and  stirring  as  the  call  of  the  light  infantry 
bugle,  of  him  who  stood  there  Sunday  after  Sunday, 
witnessing  and  pleading  for  his  Lord,  the  King  of 
righteousness  and  love  and  glory,  with  whose  spirit  he 
was  filled,  and  in  whose  power  he  spoke.  The  long 
lines  of  young  faces,  rising  tier  above  tier  down  the 
whole  length  of  the  chapel,  from  the  little  boy's  who 
had  just  left  his  mother  to  the  young  man's  who  was 
going  out  next  week  into  the  great  world  rejoicing  in 
his  strength.  It  was  a  great  and  solemn  sight,  and 
never  more  so  than  .at  this  time  of  year,  when  the  only 
lights  in  the  chapel  were  in  the  pulpit  and  at  the  seats 
of  the  praepostors  of  the  week,  and  the  soft  twilight 
stole  over  the  rest  of  the  chapel,  deepening  into  dark- 
ness in  the  high  gallery  behind  the  organ. 

But  what  was  it  after  all  which  seized  and  held  these 
three  hundred  boys,  dragging  them  out  of  them- 
selves, willing  or  unwilling,  for  twenty  minutes,  on 
Sunday  afternoon?  True,  there  always  were  boys 
scattered  up  and  down  the  School,  who  in  heart  and 
head  were  worthy  to  hear  and  able  to  carry  away  the 
deepest  and  wisest  words  there  spoken.  But  these 
were  a  minority  always,  generally  a  very  small  one, 
often  so  small  a  one  as  to  be  countable  on  the  fingers 
of  your  hand.  What  was  it  that  moved  and  held  us, 
the  rest  of  the  three  hundred  reckless,  childish  boys, 
Vv'ho  feared  the  Doctor  with  all  our  hearts,  and  wtiy 


lo      MORNING  and  AFTERNOON   CHAPEL 

little  besides  in  heaven  or  earth :  who  thought  more 
of  our  seats  in  the  School  than  of  the  Church  of  Christ, 
and  put  the  traditions  of  Rugby  and  the  public  opinion 
of  boys  in  our  daily  life  above  the  laws  of  God?  We 
couldn't  enter  into  half  that  we  heard;  we  hadn't  the 
knowledge  of  our  own  hearts  or  the  knowledge  of  one 
another;  and  little  enough  of  the  faith,  hope,  and  love 
needed  to  that  end.  But  we  listened,  as  all  boys  in 
their  better  moods  will  listen  (ay,  and  men,  too,  for 
the  matter  of  that),  to  a  man  whom  we  felt  to  be,  v/ith 
all  his  heart  and  soul  and  strength,  striving  against 
whatever  was  mean  and  unmanly  and  unrighteous  in 
our  little  world.  It  was  not  the  cold  clear  voice  of  one 
giving  advice  and  warning  from  serene  heights  to 
those  who  were  struggling  and  sinning  below,  but  the 
warm  living  voice  of  one  who  was  fighting  for  us  and 
by  our  sides,  and  calling  on  us  to  help  him  and  our- 
selves and  one  another.  And  so,  wearily  and  little  by 
little,  but  surely  and  steadily  on  the  whole,  was 
brought  home  to  the  young  boy,  for  the  first  time,  the 
meaning  of  his  life :  that  it  was  no  fool's  or  sluggard's 
paradise  into  which  he  had  wandered  by  chance,  but  a 
battle-field  ordained  from  of  old,  where  there  are  no 
spectators,  but  the  youngest  must  take  his  side,  and 
the  stakes  are  life  and  death.  And  he  who  roused  this 
consciousness  in  them  showed  them  at  the  same  time, 
by  every  word  he  spoke  in  the  pulpit,  and  by  his  whole 
daily  life,  how  the  battle  was  to  be  fought ;  and  stood 
there  before  them  their  fellow-soldier  and  the  cap- 
tain of  their  band.  The  true  sort  of  captain,  too,  for  a 
boys'  army,  one  who  had  no  misgivings  and  gave  no 
uncertain  word  of  command,  and,  let  who  would  yield 
or  make  a  truce,  would  fight  the  fight  out  (so  every 


By  THOMAS  HUGHES  ii 

boy  felt)  to  the  last  gasp  and  the  last  drop  of  blood. 
Other  sides  of  his  character  might  take  hold  of  and 
influence  boys  here  and  there,  but  it  was  this  thorough- 
ness and  undaunted  courage  which  more  than  anything 
else  won  his  way  to  the  hearts  of  the  great  mass  of 
those  on  whom  he  left  his  mark,  and  made  them 
believe  first  in  him,  and  then  in  his  Master. 


THE  RIGHT  vSTANDARD.  From  "Shadows  of  the 
Stage,"  second  series.  Copyright,  1893,  by  Macmillan 
&  Company.  (Reprinted  with  permission.)  By 
WILLIAM  WINTER. 

CRITICISM  is  neither  hostility  nor  scorn.  The 
motive  that  impels  a  thoughtful  observer  to  con- 
demn much  that  is  accepted  by  the  multitude  is  not 
the  wish  merely  to  injure  or  to  contemptuously  deride 
or  dismiss  the  popular  mediocrity,  but  the  desire  that 
the  age  shall  excel  in  all  kinds  of  worth,  and  that  the 
people  shall  both  be  the  best  and  have  the  best.  The 
poet  Pope  asserted  the  comfortable  doctrine  that 
"whatever  is  is  right. "  Mr.  Chalcote,  the  brewer,  in 
Robertson's  comedy  of  "Ours,"  announced  the  freer 
though  less  agreeable  conclusion,  that  "whatever  is  is 
wrong."  There  are  writers  who  celebrate  the  glories 
of  the  present  age,  and  who  continually  minister  to 
vanity  by  informing  the  people  that  they  are  but  little 
lower  than  the  angels.  Such  writers  are  not  the  source 
of  strength  and  help.  The  world  does  not  prosper 
through  being  flattered.  Too  much  is  heard  about  the 
rights  of  man;  too  little  about  his  duties.  The  moral- 
ists who  frankly  tell  a  people  the  truth,  when  that 
people,  as  often  happens,  is  doing  wrong  and  going 
wrong,  are  better  friends  of  mankind  than  the  flatterers 
of  the  popular  mood  and  conduct. 

Man  is  a  brotherhood.  In  Roman  days  it  was  a  say- 
ing with  the  aristocrats  of  mind  and  of  rank,  "The  com- 
mon people  like  to  be  deceived;  deceived  let  them 
be."  That  saying  was  the  essence  of  selfishness — a 
selfishness  that  the  better  part  of  the  intellectual  world 
has  outgrown.  There  cannot  be  one  law  for  persons 
of  superior  mental  endowment  and  another  law  for  the 

12 


By  WILLIAM   WINTER  13 

rest.  Knowledge  avails  nothing-  unless  it  be  communi- 
cated. Blessings  are  but  half  blessings  if  you  keep 
them  to  yourself.  Those  who  have  clear  vision  and 
stalwart  strength  of  mind  should  guide  the  rest  of  the 
world.  The  advancement  of  all  human  beings  con- 
cerns every  individual.  The  safety  and  comfort  of  the 
top  of  the  pyramid  depend  on  the  security  of  the  base. 
The  enlightened  philosopher  knows  that  it  is  both  self- 
interest  and  benevolence  to  keep  the  multitude  in  the 
right  path — to  civilise,  to  refine,  to  lead  upward  the 
masses  of  mankind,  so  that  their  eyes  may  be  opened 
to  beauty,  their  minds  to  truth,  and  their  hearts  to 
gentleness  and  aspiration.  The  guidance  of  the 
people  is  the  duty  of  the  thinker,  and  if  he  performs 
that  duty  he  will  sometimes  speak  in  terms  of  censure, 
and  he  will  make  the  censure  positive  enough  to  be 
felt  and  to  be  productive  of  good  results. 

Observation,  with  extended  view,  perceives  that 
people  in  general  are  more  deeply  interested  in  what 
they  call  amusements  than  in  serious  occupations. 
You  must  study  popular  amusements,  therefore,  if  you 
wish  to  understand  the  mental  condition  and  tendency 
of  the  people.  Those  matters  engross  much  attention, 
and  it  is  through  the  discussion  and  guidance  of  their 
amusements  that  the  people  are  most  easily  and 
directly  reached  and  affected.  Two  methods  of  that 
discussion  and  guidance,  both  long  in  vogue,  are 
sharply  contrasted  in  contemporary  practice — that  of 
universal  laudation,  and  that  of  objection  and  remon- 
strance. The  former  largely  predominates,  and  it  has 
wrought  evil  by  making  bad  matters  worse.  Within 
recent  years— although  noble  and  beautiful  works  have 
been  shown,  and  important  steps  have  been  taken — an 


14  The   RIGHT    STANDARD 

avalanche  of  trash  has  been  cast  upon  the  stage,  and 
the  people  have  accepted  it  and  have,  practically,, 
approved  it, — while  scarcely  a  voice  among  public 
censors  has  been  raised  against  that  flagrant  abuse  of 
the  theatre.  On  the  contrary,  the  public  has  been  told 
to  accept  it,  has  been  praised  for  accepting  it,  and  has 
been  prompted  to  encourage  the  extension  of  it.  "We 
are  a  hard-working,  nervous,  tired  community" — so 
runs  the  stream  of  mischievous  counsel — "and  we 
need  recreation.  When  we  go  to  the  theatre  we  want 
to  be  amused.  We  do  not  want  to  think.  Let  us  have 
something  light!"  Thus  cajoled,  and  thus  cajoling 
itself,  the  popular  intelligence  surrenders  to  folly,  and 
the  average  theatrical  manager  brings  forth  Rag 
Babies  and  Parlor  Matches,  and  complacently  remarks, 
"I  must  give  them  what  they  want." 

The  writers  and  the  managers  who  reason  in  that 
way  do  not  reason  well.  It  is  unfortunate  that  the 
custom  of  viewing  the  stage  as  an  "amusement"  ever 
prevailed ;  for  the  stage  is  an  institution  higher  and 
finer  than  any  amusement,  and  it  possesses  an  influ- 
ence upon  society  second  only  to  that  of  the  hearth- 
stone. But,  even  viewing  it  as  one  of  the  amusements, 
no  man  has  a  right  to  degrade  its  character  or  impair 
its  usefulness.  If  we  overwork  ourselves,  as  a  com- 
munity, let  us  quit  that  injurious  and  useless  custom. 
Half  of  the  activity  that  people  commonly  call  "work"' 
consists  of  parade  and  pother.  The  actual  work  of  the 
world  is  done  silently,  by  the  minority,  and  usually  it 
does  not  occupy  all  the  time  or  exhaust  all  the 
strength.  Let  us  economise  our  energies  and  stop  the 
snorting  and  the  waste.  If  we  are  "tired"  and  "nerv- 
ous" we  can,  surely,  rest  and  refresh  the  nerves  with- 


By  WILLIAM  WINTER  15 

out  turning-  the  stage  into  a  playground  for  idiots  and 
making  the  theatre  a  hospital  for  victims  of  dyspepsia. 
Sick  persons  are  in  no  fit  condition  to  comprehend  the 
drama,  and,  even  if  they  were,  the  actor  is  not  an 
apothecary.  The  time  for  going  to  the  play  is  when 
you  are  well  and  refreshed  and  can  appreciate  what 
you  see  and  hear ;  when  your  mind  and  soul  are  recep- 
tive and  you  are  not  concerned  with  the  state  of  your 
stomach  and  the  ills  of  your  system.  There  are  influ- 
ences in  the  dramatic  art  which  can  ennoble  and  help 
you,  even  though  they  do  not  foster  the  lower  instincts 
or  elicit  vacant  laughter.  The  men  and  women  who 
devote  their  lives  to  the  study  and  practice  of  acting 
are  not  frivolous  mountebanks,  emulous  to  make  you 
laugh  by  cutting  a  caper ;  nor  are  you  yourself  such  a 
poor  creature  as  you  appear  to  be  when  you  prattle 
about  your  lassitude  and  allege  your  pi-eference  for 
theatrical  rubbish. 

It  is  not  meant  that  the  stage  is  in  a  decline.  Ever 
since  the  theatre  existed  it  has  been  subject  to  fluctua- 
tions, accordant  with  the  moods  and  caprices  of  public 
taste.  There  never  has  been  a  time  in  its  history 
when  trash  was  not  striving  to  submerge  it,  and  when 
base  and  sordid  views  of  its  province  did  not  find 
specious  advocates  and  ignoble  ministers.  But  it  is 
meant  that  trash  has  been  more  than  usually  rampant 
in  recent  years,  and  that  it  is  habitually  viewed  with  a 
mischievous  lenience  and  toleration.  There  is  more 
than  common  need  of  wholesome  censure,  as  well  of 
the  public  taste  as  of  the  pernicious  doctrine  that  it  is 
the  province  and  policy  of  thinkers,  writers,  and  man- 
agers to  follow  the  people  instead  of  leading  them. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  THE  READER.  From 
' '  Pen  Photographs  of  Dickens's  Readings. ' '  By  KATE 
FIELD. 

ONE  glance  at  the  platform  is  sufficient  to  convince 
the  audience  that  Dickens  thoroughly  appreci- 
ates "stage  effect. "     A  large  screen  of  maroon  cloth 
occupies  the  background;  before  it  stands  a  light  table 
of  peculiar  design,  on  the  inner  left-hand  corner  of 
whi:h    there    peers    forth    a    miniature    desk,    large 
enough  to  accommodate  the   reader's  book.     On  the 
right  hand  of  the  table,  and  somewhat  below  its  level, 
is   a    shelf,    where  repose    a    carafe  of    water    and  a 
tumbler.     'Tis  "a  combination  and  a  form  indeed," 
covered  with  velvet  somewhat  lighter  in  color  than 
the  screen.     No  drapery  conceals  the  table,  whereby 
it  is  plain  that  Dickens  believes  in  expression  of  figure 
as  well  as  of  face,  and  does  not  throw  av\ray  everything 
but  his  head  and  arms,  according  to  the  ordinary  habit 
of  ordinary  speakers.     About  twelve  feet  above  the 
platform,  and  somewhat  in  advance  of  the  table,  is  a 
horizontal  row  of    gas-jets  with  a  tin  reflector;    and 
midway  in  both  perpendicular  gas-pipes  there  is  one 
powerful  jet  with  glass  chimney.     By  this  admirable 
arrangement,    Dickens   stands  against   a    dark    back- 
ground in  a  frame  of  gaslight,  which  throws  out  his 
face  and  figure  to  the  best  advantage.     With  the  book 
"Dickens"  stranded  on  the  little  desk,  the  comedian 
iJickens  can  transform  a  table  into  a  stage ;  and  had 
the  great  novelist  concluded,  at  the  last  moment,  not 
to  appear  before  us,   this  ingenious  apparatus  would 
have  taught  us  a  lesson  in  the  art  of  reading. 

He  comes!      A    lithe,    energetic    man,   of    medium 
stature,  crosses  the  platform  at  the  brisk  gait  of  five 

i6 


By  KATE    FIELD  17 

miles  an  hour,  and  takes  his  position  behind  the  table. 
This  is  Charles  Dickens,  whose  name  has  been  a 
household  word  in  England  and  America  for  thirty 
years;  whose  books  have  been  the  joy  and  solace  of 
many  a  weary  heart  and  head.  A  first  glance  disap- 
pointed me.  I  thought  I  should  prefer  to  have  him 
entirely  unlike  himself;  but  when  I  began  to  speculate 
on  how  Charles  Dickens  ought  to  look,  I  gave  the 
matter  up,  and  wisely  concluded  that  Nature  knew  her 
own  intentions  better  than  any  one  else. 

Dickens  has  a  broad,  full  brow,  a  fine  head — which, 
for  a  man  of  such  power  and  energy,  is  singularly 
small  at  the  base  of  the  brain — and  a  cleanly  cut 
profile.  There  is  a  slight  resemblance  between  him 
and  Louis  Napoleon  in  the  latter  respect,  owing  mainly 
to  the  nose;  but  it  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  the 
faces  of  the  two  men  are  totally  different.  Dickens's 
eyes  are  light-blue,  and  his  mouth  and  jaw,  without 
having  any  claim  to  beauty,  possess  a  strength  that  is 
not  concealed  by  the  veil  of  iron-gray  mustache  and 
generous  imperial.  His  head  is  but  slightly  graced 
with  iron-gray  hair,  and  his  complexion  is  florid. 

If  any  one  thinks  to  obtain  an  accurate  idea  of  Dick- 
ens from  the  photographs  that  flood  the  country,  he  is 
mistaken.  He  will  see  Dickens's  clothes,  Dickens's 
features,  as  they  appear  when  Nicholas  Nickleby  is  in 
the  act  of  knocking  down  Mr.  Wackford  Squeers;  but 
he  will  not  see  what  makes  Dickens's  face  attractive, 
the  geniality  and  expression  that  his  heart  and  brain 
put  into  it.  In  his  photographs  Dickens  looks  as  if, 
previous  to  posing,  he  had  been  put  under  an 
exhausted  receiver  and  had  had  his  soul  pumped  out 
of  him.     This  process  is  no  beautifier.     Therefore,  let 


i8  CHARLES    DICKENS  the  READER 

those  who  have  not  been  able  to  judge  for  themselves 
believe  that  Dickens's  face  is  capable  of  vvonderfully 
varied  expression.  Hence  it  is  the  best  sort  of  face. 
His  eye  is  at  times  so  keen  as  to  cause  whoever  is 
within  its  range  to  feel  morally  certain  that  it  has 
penetrated  to  his  boots;  at  others  it  brims  over  with 
kindliness.  "It  is  like  looking  forward  to  spring  to 
think  of  seeing  your  beaming  eye  again,"  wrote  Lord 
Jeffrey  to  Charles  Dickens  years  ago,  and  truly,  for 
there  is  a  twinkle  in  it  that,  like  a  promissory  note, 
pledges  itself  to  any  amount  of  fun — within  sixty  min- 
utes. After  seeing  this  twinkle  I  was  satisfied  with 
Dickens's  appearance,  and  became  resigned  to  the  fact 
of  his  not  resembling  Apollo  Belvedere.  One  thing  is 
certain, — if  he  did  resemble  this  classical  young 
gentleman,  he  never  could  have  written  his  novels. 
Laying  this  flattering  unction  to  my  soul,  I  listen. 


WASHINGTON  AND  FRANKLIN.  From  "Imag- 
inary Conversations."  By  WALTER  SAVAGE 
LANDOR. 

FRANKLIN— The  conduct  of  England  toward  us 
resembles  that  of  Ebenezer  Bullock  toward  his 
eldest  son,  Jonas. 

Washington — I  remember  old  Ebenezer;  and  I 
believe  it  was  Jonas  who,  when  another  youth,  after 
giving  him  much  offence  and  seeing  him  unresisting 
would  fain  fight  him,  replied:  "Nay,  I  will  not  fight 
thee,  friend;  but  if  thou  dost  with  that  fist  what  thou 
threatenest,  by  the  Lord's  help  I  will  smite  thee  sore, 
marking  thee  for  one  of  an  ill,  unprofitable  flock;  and 
thou  shalt  walk  home  in  heaviness,  like  a  wether  the 
first  morning  he  was  made  one."  Whereat  he  took  off 
his  coat,  folded  it  up,  and  laid  it  on  the  ground,  say- 
ing, "This  at  least  hath  done  no  harm,  and  deserveth 
good  treatment."  The  adversary,  not  admiring  such 
an  object  of  contemplation,  went  away  muttering  more 
reasonable  threats,  conditional  and  subjunctive. 
Ebenezer,  I  guess,  aggravated  and  wore  out  his  son's 
patience;  for  the  old  man  was  rich  and  testy,  and 
would  have  his  comforts  neither  encroached  upon  nor 
much  partaken. 

Franklin — My  story  is  this.  Jonas  had  been  hunting 
in  the  woods,  and  had  contracted  a  rheumatism  in  the 
face  which  drew  it  awry,  and,  either  from  the  pain  it 
occasioned  or  from  the  medicines  he  took  to  cure  it, 
rotted  one  of  his  grinders.  Old  Ebenezer  was  wealthy, 
had  little  to  do  or  to  care  about,  made  few  observations 
on  his  family,  sick  or  sound,  and  saw  nothing  partic- 
ular in  his  son's  countenance.  However,  one  day  after 
dinner   when   he  had  eaten    heartily,   he    said,    "Son 

19 


20  WASHINGTON  and  FRANKLIN 

Jonas,  methinks  thy  appetite  is  not  over-keen;    pick 
(and  welcome)  the  other  half  of  that  hog's  foot." 

"Father,"  answered  he,  "I  have  had  a  pain  in  my 
tooth  the  last  fortnight;  the  northerly  wind  does  it  no 
good  to-day.  I  would  rather,  if  so  be  that  you  approve 
of  it,  eat  a  slice  of  yon  fair  cheesecake  in  the  closet." 

"Why,  what  ails  the  tooth?"  said  Ebenezer. 
"Nothing  more,"  replied  Jonas,  "than  that  I  cannot 
chew  with  it  what  I  used  to  chew."  "Drive  a  nail  in 
the  wall,  "quoth  stoutly  and  courageously  Ebenezer,  "tie 
a  string  to  one  end,  and  lace  the  other  round  thy  tooth. ' ' 

The  son  performed  a  part  of  the  injunction,  but 
could  not  very  dexterously  twist  the  string  around  the 
grinder,  for  his  teeth  were  close  and  the  cord  not  over- 
fine.  Then  said  the  father  kindly,  "Open  thy  mouth, 
lad!  give  me  the  twine:  back  thy  head, — back  it,  I  tell 
thee,  over  the  chair." 

"Not  that,  father!  not  that;  the  next, "  cried  Jonas. 
"What  dost  mean?"  proudly  and  impatiently  said 
Ebenezer.  "Is  not  the  string  about  it?  Dost  hold  my 
hand  too,  scapegrace?  Dost  give  me  this  trouble  for 
nought?"  "Patience,  now,  father!"  meekly  said 
Jonas,  with  the  cord  across  his  tongue;  "let  me  draw 
my  tooth  my  own  way." 

"Follow  thine  own  courses,  serpent!"  indignantly 
exclaimed  Ebenezer.  "As  God's  in  Boston,  thou  art  a 
most  wilful  and  undutiful  child."  "I  hope  not, 
father."  "Hope  not!  rebel!  Did  I  not  beget  thee 
and  thy  teeth,  one  and  all?  Have  not  I  lodged  thee, 
clothed  thee,  and  fed  thee,  these  forty  years;  and  now, 
I  warrant  ye,  all  this  bustle  and  backwardness  about  a 
rotten  tooth !  Should  I  be  a  groat  the  richer  for  it,  out 
or  in?" 


By  WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDUR  21 

Washington — Dignity  in  private  men  and  in  govern- 
ments has  been  little  else  than  a  stately  and  stiff  per- 
severance in  oppression ;  and  spirit,  as  it  is  called,  little 
else  than  the  foam  of  hard-mouthed  insolence.  Such 
at  last  is  become  the  audacity  of  Power,  from  a  cen- 
tury or  more  of  holidays  and  riot,  it  now  complains 
that  you  deprive  it  of  its  prerogative  if  you  limit  the 
exercise  of  its  malignity.  I  lament  that  there  are  those 
who  can  learn  no  lesson  of  humanity,  unless  we  write 
it  broadly  with  the  point  of  the  sword. 

Franklin — Let  us  hope,  however,  that  we  may  see 
the  day  when  these  scholars  shall  be  turned  out  of 
school. 

Washington — The  object  of  our  cares  and  solicitudes, 
at  present,  is  the  stability  of  the  blessings  we  have 
obtained.  No  attempt  against  them  is  dangerous  from 
without,  nor  immediately  from  within ;  but  the  seeds 
of  corruption  are  inherent,  however  latent,  in  all 
bodies,  physical  and  political ;  guards  therefore  should 
be  stationed,  and  laws  enacted,  to  deter  adventurers 
from  attempts  at  despotism. 


LETTER     TO      MR.     JOHNSON      (Printer).       By 
WILLIAM  COWPER. 

It  happened  that  some  accidental  reviser  of  the 
manuscript  had  taken  the  liberty  to  alter  a  line  in  a 
poem  of  Cowper's.  This  liberty  drew  from  the 
offended  poet  the  following  very  just  and  animated 
remonstrance,  which  I  am  anxious  to  preserve  because 
it  elucidates,  with  great  felicity  of  expression,  his 
deliberate  ideas  on  English  versification. — (Note  by 
Hayley.) 

I  DID  not  write  the  line  that  has  been  tampered 
with  hastily,  or  without  due  attention  to  the  con- 
struction of  it ;  and  what  appeared  to  me  its  only  merit 
is,  in  its  present  state,  entirely  annihilated. 

I  know  that  the  ears  of  modern  verse  writers  are 
delicate  to  an  excess,  and  their  readers  are  troubled 
with  the  same  squeamishness  as  themselves.  So  that 
if  a  line  do  not  run  as  smooth  as  quicksilver,  they  are 
offended.  A  critic  of  the  present  day  serves  a  poem 
as  a  cook  does  a  dead  turkey,  when  she  fastens  the  legs 
of  it  to  a  post  and  draws  out  all  the  sinews.  For  this 
we  may  thank  Pope ;  but  unless  we  could  imitate  him 
in  the  closeness  and  compactness  of  his  expression,  as 
well  as  in  the  smoothness  of  his  numbers,  we  had 
better  drop  the  imitation,  which  serves  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  emasculate  and  weaken  all  we  write. 
Give  me  a  manly  rough  line,  with  a  deal  of  meaning  in 
it,  rather  than  a  whole  poem  full  of  musical  periods, 
that  have  nothing  but  their  oily  smoothness  to  recom- 
mend them ! 

I  have  said  thus  much,  as  I  hinted  in  the  beginning, 
because  I  have  just  finished  a  much  longer  poem  than 

22 


By  WILLIAM   COWPER  43 

the  last,  which  our  common  friend  will  receive  by  the 
same  messenger  that  has  the  charge  of  this  letter.  In 
that  poem  there  are  many  lines  which  an  ear  so  nice  as 
the  gentleman's  who  made  the  above-mentioned  altera- 
tion would  undoubtedly  condemn ;  and  yet  (if  I  may 
be  permitted  to  say  it)  they  cannot  be  made  smoother 
without  being  the  worse  for  it.  There  is  a  roughness 
on  a  plum  which  nobody  that  understands  fruit  would 
rub  off,  though  the  plum  would  be  much  more  polished 
without  it.  But,  lest  I  tire  you,  I  will  only  add  that  I 
wish  you  to  guard  me  from  all  such  meddling;  assur- 
ing you  that  I  always  write  as  smoothly  as  I  can;  but 
that  I  never  did.  never  will,  sacrifice  the  spirit  or  sense 
of  a  passage  to  the  sound  of  it. 


FERDINAND  AND  MIRANDA.  From  "The 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel."  Copyright,  1896,  by- 
George  Meredith.  Reprinted  with  the  permission  of 
the  publishers,  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  By 
GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

RICHARD  jumped  into  his  boat,  and  pulled  down 
the  tide. 

When  nature  has  made  us  ripe  for  love,  it  seldom 
occurs  that  the  Fates  are  behindhand  in  furnishing  a 
temple  for  the  flame. 

Above  green-flashing  plunges  of  a  weir,  and  shaken 
by  the  thunder  below,  lilies,  golden  and  white,  were 
swaying  at  anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet 
hung  from  the  banks  thick  with  weed  and  trailing 
bramble,  and  there  also  hung  a  daughter  of  earth. 
Her  face  was  shaded  by  a  broad  straw  hat  with  a 
flexible  brim  that  left  her  lips  and  chin  in  the  sun,  and, 
sometimes  nodding,  sent  forth  a  light  of  promising 
eyes.  Across  her  shoulders,  and  behind,  flowed  large 
loose  curls,  brown  in  shadow,  almost  golden  where  the 
ray  touched  them.  She  was  simply  dressed,  befitting 
decency  and  the  season.  On  a  closer  inspection  you 
might  see  that  her  lips  were  stained.  This  blooming 
young  person  was  regaling  on  dewberries.  They  grew 
between  the  bank  and  the  water.  Apparently  she 
found  the  fruit  abundant,  for  her  hand  was  making 
pretty  progress  to  her  mouth.  Fastidious  youth,  which 
revolts  at  woman  plumping  her  exquisite  proportions 
on  bread-and-butter,  and  would  (we  must  suppose)  joy- 
fully have  her  scraggy  to  have  her  poetical,  can  hardly 
object  to  dewberries.  Indeed,  the  act  of  eating  them 
is  dainty  and  induces  musing.  The  dewberry  is  a 
sister  to  the  lotus,  and  an  innocent  sister.     You  eat: 


By  GEORGE   MEREDITH  25 

mouth,  eye,  and  hand  are  occupied,  and  the  undrugged 
mind  free  to  roam.  And  so  it  was  with  the  damsel 
who  knelt  there.  The  little  skylark  went  up  above 
her,  all  song,  to  the  smooth  southern  cloud  lying  along 
the  blue;  from  a  dewy  copse  dark  over  her  nodding  hat 
the  blackbird  fluted,  calling  to  her  with  thrice  mellow 
note:  the  kingfisher  flashed  emerald  out  of  green 
osiers:  a  bow-winged  heron  travelled  aloft,  seeking 
solitude:  a  boat  slipped  toward  her,  containing  a 
dreamy  youth;  and  still  she  plucked  the  fruit,  and 
ate,  and  mused,  as  if  no  fairy  prince  were  invading  her 
territories,  and  as  if  she  wished  not  for  one,  or  knew 
not  her  wishes.  Surrounded  by  the  green  shaven 
meadows,  the  pastoral  summer  buzz,  the  weir-fall's 
thundering  white,  amid  the  breath  and  beauty  of  wild 
flowers,  she  was  a  bit  of  lovely  human  life  in  a  fair 
setting;  a  terrible  attraction.  The  Magnetic  Youth 
leaned  round  to  note  his  proximity  to  the  weir-piles, 
and  beheld  the  sweet  vision.  Stiller  and  stiller  grew 
nature,  as  at  the  meeting  of  two  electric  clouds.  Her 
posture  was  so  graceful,  that,  though  he  was  making 
straight  for  the  weir,  he  dared  not  dip  a  scull.  Just 
then  one  enticing  dewberry  caught  her  eyes.  He  was 
floating  by  unheeded,  and  saw  that  her  hand  stretched 
low,  and  could  not  gather  what  it  sought.  A  stroke 
from  his  right  brought  him  beside  her.  The  damsel 
glanced  up  dismayed,  and  her  whole  shape  trembled 
over  the  brink.  Richard  sprang  from  his  boat  into  the 
water.  Pressing  a  hand  beneath  her  foot,  which  she 
had  thrust  against  the  crumbling  wet  sides  of  the  bank 
to  save  herself,  he  enabled  her  to  recover  her  balance, 
and  gain  safe  earth,  whither  he  followed  her. 

He  had  landed  on  an  island  of  the  still-vexed  Ber- 


26  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA 

moothes.  The  world  lay  wrecked  behind  him ;  Rayn- 
ham  hung  in  mists,  remote,  a  phantom  to  the  vivid 
reality  of  this  white  hand  which  had  drawn  him  thither 
away  thousands  of  leagues  in  an  eye-twinkle.  Hark, 
how  Ariel  sang  overhead!  What  splendour  in  the 
heavens !  What  marvels  of  beauty  about  his  enchanted 
brows!  And,  O  you  wonder!  Fair  Flame!  by  whose 
light  the  glories  of  being  are  now  first  seen  . 
Radiant  Miranda !     Prince  Ferdinand  is  at  your  feet. 

Or  is  it  Adam,  his  rib  taken  from  his  side  in  sleep, 
and  thus  transformed,  to  make  him  behold  his  Para- 
dise, and  lose  it?     .     .     . 

The  youth  looked  on  her  with  as  glowing  an  eye.  It 
was  the  First  Woman  to  him. 

And  she — mankind  was  all  Caliban  to  her,  saving 
this  one  princely  youth. 

So  to  each  other  said  their  changing  eyes  in  the 
moment  they  stood  together;  he  pale,  and  she  blushing. 

She  was  indeed  sweetly  fair,  and  would  have  been 
held  fair  among  rival  damsels.  On  a  magic  shore,  and 
to  a  youth  educated  by  a  System,  strung  like  an  arrow 
drawn  to  the  head — he,  it  might  be  guessed,  could  fly 
fast  and  far  with  her.  The  soft  rose  in  her  cheeks, 
the  clearness  of  her  eyes,  bore  witness  to  the  body's 
virtue ;  and  health  and  happy  blood  were  in  her  bear- 
ing. Had  she  stood  before  Sir  Austin  among  rival 
damsels,  that  Scientific  Humanist,  for  the  consumma- 
tion of  his  System,  would  have  thrown  her  the  handker- 
chief for  his  son.  The  wide  summer-hat,  nodding  over 
her  forehead  to  her  brows,  seemed  to  flow  with  the 
flowing  heavy  curls,  and  those  fire-threaded  mellow 
curls,  only  half-curls,  v/aves  of  hair  call  them,  rippling 
at  the  ends,  went  like  a  sunny  red-veined  torrent  down 


By  GEORGE    MEREDITH  27 

her  back  almost  to  her  waist:  a  glorious  vision  to  the 
youth,  who  embraced  it  as  a  flower  of  beauty,  and 
read  not  a  feature.  There  were  curious  features  of 
colour  in  her  face  for  him  to  have  read.  Her  brows, 
thick  and  brownish  against  a  soft  skin,  showing  the 
action  of  the  blood,  met  in  the  bend  of  a  bow,  extend- 
ing to  the  temples  long  and  level :  you  saw  that  she 
was  fashioned  to  peruse  the  sights  of  earth,  and  by  the 
pliability  of  her  brows  that  the  wonderful  creature 
used  her  faculty,  and  was  not  going  to  be  a  statue  to 
the  gazer.  Under  the  dark  thick  brows  an  arch  of 
lashes  shot  out,  giving  a  wealth  of  darkness  to  the  full 
frank  blue  eyes,  a  mystery  of  meaning — more  than 
brain  Avas  ever  meant  to  fathom :  richer,  henceforth, 
than  all  mortal  wisdom  to  Prince  Ferdinand.  For 
when  nature  turns  artist,  and  produces  contrasts  of 
colour  on  a  fair  face,  where  is  the  Sage,  or  what  the 
Oracle,  shall  match  the  depth  of  its  lightest  look? 

Prince  Ferdinand  was  also  fair.  In  his  slim  boating- 
attire  his  figure  looked  heroic.  His  hair,  rising  from 
the  parting,  to  the  right  of  his  forehead,  in  what  his 
admiring  Lady  Blandish  called  his  plume,  fell  away 
slanting  silkily  to  the  temples  across  the  nearly 
imperceptible  upward  curve  of  his  brows  there — felt 
more  than  seen,  so  slight  it  was — and  gave  to  his 
profile  a  bold  beauty,  to  which  his  bashful,  breathless 
air  was  a  flattering  charm.  An  arrow  drawn  to  the 
head,  capable  of  flying  fast  and  far  with  her!  He 
leaned  a  little  forward,  drinking  her  in  with  all  his 
eyes,  and  young  Love  has  a  thoiisand.  Then  truly  the 
System  triumphed,  just  ere  it  was  to  fall;  and  could 
Sir  Austin  have  been  content  to  draw  the  arrow  to  the 
head  and  let  it  fly,  when  it  would  fly,  he  might  have 


28  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA 

pointed  to  his  son  again,  and  said  to  the  world,  "Match 
him!"  Such  keen  bliss  as  the  youth  had  in  the  sight  of 
her,  an  innocent  youth  alone  has  powers  of  soul  in  him 
to  experience. 


A  RETROSPECT.     By  VICTOR  HUGO. 

I  HAVE  had  for  friends  and  allies,  I  have  seen  suc- 
cessively pass  before  me,  and  according  to  the 
changes  and  chances  of  destiny,  I  have  received  in  my 
house,  sometimes  in  intimacy,  chancellors,  peers, 
dukes.  Pasquier,  Pont^coulant,  Montalembert,  Bel- 
lune;  and  celebrated  men,  Lamennais,  Lamanine, 
Chateaubriand;  presidents  of  the  Republic,  Manin; 
leaders  of  revolution,  Louis  Blanc,  Montanelli,  Arago, 
Heliade;  leaders  of  the  people,  Garibaldi,  Mazzini, 
Kossuth,  Microslawski ;  artists,  Rossini,  David 
d' Angers,  Pradier,  Meyerbeer,  Eugene  Delacroix; 
marshals,  Soult,  Mackau;  Serjeants,  Boni,  Heurtebise; 
bishops,  the  Cardinal  of  Besangon,  M.  de  Rohan,  the 
Cardinal  of  Bordeaux,  M.  Donnet;  and  comedians, 
Frederick  Lemaitre,  Mile.  Rachel,  Mile.  Mars,  Mme. 
Dorval,  Macready;  ministers  and  ambassadors,  Moli, 
Guizot,  Thiers,  Lord  Palmerston,  Lord  Normanby,  M. 
de  Ligne ;  and  of  peasants,  Charles  Durand ;  princes, 
imperial  and  royal  highnesses  and  plain  highnesses, 
such  as  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  Ernest  of  Saxe-Coburg, 
the  Princess  of  Canino,  Louis  Charles  Pierre,  and 
Napoleon  Bonaparte;  and  of  shoemakers,  Guay;  of 
kings  and  emperors,  Jerome  of  Westphalia,  Max  of 
Bavaria,  the  Emperor  of  Brazil ;  and  of  thorough  revo- 
lutionists, Bourillon.  I  have  had  sometimes  in  my 
hands  the  gloved  and  white  palm  of  the  upper  class 
and  the  heavy  black  hand  of  the  lower  class,  and  have 
recognized  that  both  are  but  men.  After  all  these 
have  passed  before  me,  I  say  that  Humanity  has  a 
synonym — Equality;  and  that  under  Heaven  there  is 
but  one  thing  we  ought  to  bow  to — Genius;  and  only 
one  thing  before  which  we  ought  to  kneel — Goodness. 

2q 


FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE.  From  "Essays  in 
London  and  Elsewhere,"  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper 
&  Brothers.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By  HENRY 
JAMES. 

MRS.  KEMBLE  often  used  to  say  of  people  who 
met  her  during  the  later  years  of  her  life,  "No 
wonder  they  were  surprised  and  bewildered,  poor 
things — they  supposed  I  was  dead!"  Dying  January 
15,  1893,  in  her  eighty-third  year,  she  had  outlived  a 
whole  order  of  things,  her  "time,"  as  we  call  it,  and 
in  particular  so  many  of  her  near  contemporaries,  so 
many  relations  and  friends,  witnesses  and  admirers,  so 
much,  too,  of  her  own  robust  and  ironic  interest  in 
life,  that  the  event,  as  regards  attention  excited,  may 
well  be  said  to  have  introduced  her  to  unconscious 
generations.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Kemble  all  her  life  was  so 
great  a  figure  for  those  who  were  not  in  ignorance,  the 
distinction  and  interest  of  her  character  were,  among 
them,  so  fundamental  an  article  of  faith,  that  such  per- 
sons were  startled  at  finding  themselves  called  to  be, 
not  combative  in  the  cause  of  her  innumerable  strong 
features  (they  were  used  to  that),  but  insistent  in 
respect  to  her  eminence. 

Even  if  Mrs.  Kemble  had  been  a  less  remarkable 
person,  she  would  have  owed  a  distinction  to  the  far- 
away past  to  which  she  gave  continuity,  would  have 
been  interesting  from  the  curious  contacts  she  was 
able,  as  it  were,  to  transmit.  She  made  us  touch  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  whom  does  Mrs.  Siddons  not 
make  us  touch?  She  had  sat  to  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence 
for  her  portrait,  and  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  was  in  love 
with  Sir  Joshua's  Tragic  Muse.  She  had  breakfasted 
with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  she  had  sung  with  Tom  Moore, 

30 


By  HENRY   JAMES  31 

she  had  listened  to  Edmund  Kean  and  to  Mademoiselle 
Mars.     .     .     . 

She  had  figured  in  the  old  London  world,  which 
lived  again  in  her  talk,  and,  to  a  great  degree,  in  her 
habits  and  standards  and  tone.  This  background, 
embroidered  with  her  theatrical  past,  so  imassimilated, 
but  so  vivid  in  her  handsome  hereditary  head  and  the 
unflagging  drama  of  her  manner,  was  helped  by  her 
agitated,  unsettled  life  to  make  her  what  I  have  called 
historic  If  her  last  twenty  years  were  years  of  rest,  it 
was  impossible  for  an  observer  of  them  not  to  feel  from 
how  many  things  she  was  resting — from  how  long  a 
journey  and  how  untempered  a  fate,  what  an  expen- 
diture of  that  rich  personality  which  always  moved  all 
together  and  with  all  its  violent  force.     .     . 

One  of  the  earliest  things  that  I  remember  with  any 
vividness  is  a  drive  in  the  country,  near  New  York,  in 
the  course  of  which  the  carriage  passed  a  lady  on  horse- 
back who  had  stopped  to  address  herself  with  some 
vivacity  to  certain  men  at  work  by  the  road.  Just  as 
we  had  got  further  one  of  my  elders  exclaimed  to  the 
other,  "Why,  it's  Fanny  Kemble!"  and  on  my  inquiry 
who  was  the  bearer  of  this  name,  which  fell  upon  my 
ear  for  the  first  time,  I  was  informed  that  she  was  a 
celebrated  actress.  It  was  added,  I  think,  that  she 
was  a  brilliant  reader  of  Shakespeare,  though  I  am  not 
certain  that  the  incident  occurred  after  she  had  begun 
her  career  of  reading.  The  American  cities,  at  any 
rate,  were  promptly  filled  with  the  glory  of  this  career, 
so  that  there  was  a  chance  for  me  to  be  vaguely  per- 
plexed as  to  the  bearing  on  the  performance,  which  I 
heard  constantly  alluded  to,  of  her  equestrian  element, 
so  large  a  part  of  her  youth.     Did  she  read  on  horse- 


32  FRANCES  ANNE    KEMBLE 

back,  or  was  her  acting  one  ot  the  attractions  of  the 
circus?  There  had  been  something  in  the  circumstances 
(perhaps  the  first  sight  of  a  living  amazon — an  appari- 
tion comparatively  rare  then  in  American  suburbs)  to 
keep  me  from  forgetting  the  lady,  about  whom  gath- 
ered still  other  legends  than  the  glamour  of  the  theatre 
At  all  events,  she  was  planted  from  that  moment  so 
firmly  in  my  mind  that  when,  as  a  more  developed 
youngster,  after  an  interval  of  several  years,  I  was 
taken  for  education's  sake  to  hear  her,  the  occasion 
was  primarily  a  relief  to  long  suspense.  It  became, 
however,  and  there  was  another  that  followed  it,  a  joy 
by  itself  and  an  impression  ineffaceable. 

This  was  in  London,  and  I  remember  even  from 
such  a  distance  of  time  every  detail  of  the  picture  and 
every  tone  of  her  voice.  The  two  readings. — one  was 
of  ''King  Lear,*'  the  other  of  "A  Midsummer- Night's 
Dream" — took  place  in  certain  Assembly  Rooms  in  St. 
John's  Wood.  .  .  .  The  reader  dressed  in  black 
velvet  for  Lear  and  in  white  satin  for  the  comedy,  and 
presented  herself  to  my  young  vision  as  a  being  of 
formidable  splendor.  I  must  have  measured  in  some 
degree  the  power  and  beauty  of  her  performance,  for  I 
perfectly  recall  the  sense  of  irreparable  privation  with 
which  a  little  later  I  heard  my  parents  describe  the 
emotion  produced  by  her  Othello,  given  at  the  old 
Hanover  Square  Rooms,  and  to  which  I  had  not  been 
conducted.  I  have  seen  both  the  tragedy  and  the 
"Dream"  acted  several  times  since  then,  but  I  have 
always  found  myself  waiting  vainly  for  any  approach 
to  the  splendid  volume  of  Mrs.  Kemble's  "Howl, 
howl,  howl!"  in  the  one,  or  to  the  animation  and 
variety  that  she  contributed  to  the  other.     I  am  confi- 


By  HENRY   JAMES  33 

dent  that  the  most  exquisite  of  fairy-tales  never  was 
such  a  "spectacle"  as  when  she  read,  I  was  going  to 
say  mounted,  it.  Is  this  reminiscence  of  the  human 
thunder-roll  that  she  produced  in  Lear  in  some  degree 
one  of  the  indulgences  with  which  we  treat  our  child- 
hood? I  think  not,  in  the  light  of  innumerable  subse- 
quent impressions.  These  showed  that  the  force  and 
the  imagination  were  still  there;  why  then  should  they 
not,  in  the  prime  of  their  magnificent  energy,  have 
borne  their  fruit?     . 

It  is  always  a  torment  to  the  later  friends  of  the  pos- 
sessor of  a  great  talent  to  have  to  content  themselves 
with  the  supposition  and  the  hearsay;  but  in  Mrs, 
Kemble's  society  there  were  precious  though  casual 
consolations  for  the  treacheries  of  time.  She  was  so 
saturated  with  Shakespeare  that  she  had  made  him,  as 
it  were,  the  air  she  lived  in,  an  air  that  stirred  with  his 
words  whenever  she  herself  was  moved,  whenever  she 
was  agitated  or  impressed,  reminded  or  challenged. 
He  was  indeed  her  utterance,  the  language  she  spoke 
when  she  spoke  most  from  herself. 

"Henry  V."  was  the  last  play  I  heard  her  read  in 
public,  and  I  remember  a  declaration  of  hers  that  it 
was  the  play  she  loved  best  to  read,  better  even  than 
those  that  yielded  poetry  more  various.  It  was  gallant 
and  martial  and  intensely  English,  and  she  was  cer- 
tainly on  such  evenings  the  "Anglaise  des  Anglaises" 
she  professed  to  be.  Her  splendid  tones  and  her  face, 
lighted  like  that  of  a  war-goddess,  seemed  to  fill  the 
performance  with  the  hurry  of  armies  and  the  sound 
of  battle;  as  in  her  rendering  of  "A  Midsummer- 
Night's  Dream,"  so  the  illusion  was  that  of  a  multitude 
and  a  pageant.     I  recall  the  tremendous  ring  of  her 


34  FRANCES   ANNE   KEMBLE • 

voice,  somewhat  diminished  as  it  then  was,  in  the 
culminating  "God  for  Harry,  England,  and  Saint 
George ! "  a  voice  the  immense  effect  of  which,  in  her 
finest  years — the  occasion,  for  instance,  of  her  brief 
return  to  the  stage  in  1847 — an  old  friend  just  illus- 
trates to  me  by  a  reminiscence.  She  was  acting  at 
that  period  at  the  Princess's  Theatre,  with  Macready, 
in  whom  my  informant,  then  a  very  young  man  and  an 
unfledged  journalist,  remembers  himself  to  have  been, 
for  some  reason,  "surprisingly  disappointed."  It  all 
seems  very  ancient  history.  On  one  of  the  evenings  of 
"Macbeth,"  he  was  making  his  way,  by  invitation,  to 
Douglas  Jerrold's  box — Douglas  Jerrold  had  a  news- 
paper— when,  in  the  passage,  he  was  arrested  by  the 
sense  that  Mrs.  Kemble  was  already  on  the  stage, 
reading  the  letter  with  which  Lady  Macbeth  makes 
her  entrance.  The  manner  in  which  she  read  it,  the 
tone  that  reached  his  ears,  held  him  motionless  and 
spellbound  till  she  had  finished.  To  nothing  more 
beautiful  had  he  ever  listened,  nothing  more  beautiful 
was  he  ever  to  hear  again.  This  was  the  sort  of 
impression  commemorated  in  Longfellow's  so  sincere 
sonnet,  "Ah,  precious  evenings,  all  too  swiftly 
sped!"     .     .     . 

It  befell,  on  some  occasion  of  her  being  in  one  of  her 
frequent  and  admirable  narrative  moods,  that  a  friend 
was  sufficiently  addicted  to  the  perpetual  puzzle  of  art 
to  ask  her  what  preparation,  in  a  series  of  readings, 
what  degree  of  rehearsal,  as  it  were,  she  found  neces- 
sary for  performances  so  arduous  and  so  complex. 
"Rehearsal?" — she  was,  with  all  the  good  faith  in  the 
world,  almost  scandalized  at  the  idea,  "I  may  have 
read  over  the  play,  and  I  think  I  kept  myself  quiet." 


By  HENRY   JAMES  35 

"But  was  nothing- determined,  established  in  advance?" 
This  was  an  inquiry  which  Mrs.  Kemble  could  treat 
with  all  the  gayety  of  her  irony,  and  in  the  light  of 
which  her  talent  exhibited  just  that  disconcerting  wil- 
fulness I  have  already  spoken  of.  She  would  have 
been  a  capture  for  the  disputants  who  pretend  that  the 
actor's  emotion  must  be  real,  if  she  had  not  been 
indeed,  with  her  hatred  both  of  enrolment  and  of  tea- 
party  esthetics,  too  dangerous  a  recruit  for  any  camp. 
Priggishness  and  pedantry  excited  her  ire;  woe  there- 
fore to  those  who  collectively  might  have  presumed  she 
was  on  their  "side. " 

She  was  artistically,  I  think,  a  very  fine  anomaly, 
and,  in  relation  to  the  efficacity  of  what  may  be  called 
the  natural  method,  the  operation  of  pure  sincerity,  a 
witness  no  less  interesting  than  imconscious.  An 
equally  active  and  fruitful  love  of  beauty  was  probably 
never  accompanied  with  so  little  technical  curiosity. 
Her  endowment  was  so  rich,  her  spirit  so  proud,  her 
temper  so  high,  that,  as  she  was  an  immense  success, 
they  made  her  indifference  and  her  eccentricity  mag- 
nificent. From  what  she  would  have  been  as  a  failure 
the  imagination  averts  its  face ;  and  if  her  only  receipt 
for  "rendering"  Shakespeare  was  to  live  with  him  and 
try  to  be  worthy  of  him,  there  are  many  aspirants  it 
would  not  have  taken  far  on  the  way.  Nor  would  one 
have  expected  it  to  be  the  precursor  of  performances 
masterly  in  their  finish.  Such  simplicities  were  easy 
to  a  person  who  had  Mrs.  Kemble 's  organ,  her  pres- 
ence, and  her  rare  perceptions.     .     . 

Her  talk  reflected  a  thousand  vanished  and  present 
things ;  but  there  were  those  of  her  friends  for  v/hom 
its   value   was,   as  I  have  hinted,   almost  before  any 


36  FRANCES   ANNE    KEMBLE 

other  documentary.     The  generations  move  so  fast  and 
change  so  much  that  Mrs.  Kemble  testified  even  more 
than  she  affected  to  do,  which  was  much,  to  antique 
manners  and  a  closed  chapter  of  history.     Her  conver- 
sation   swarmed    with    people  and    with    criticism  of 
people,  with  the  ghosts  of  a  dead  society.     She  had,  in 
two  hemispheres,  seen  every  one  and  known  every  one, 
had  assisted  at  the  social  comedy  of  her  age.     Her  own 
habits  and  traditions  were  in  themselves  a  survival  of 
an  era  less  democratic  and  more  mannered.     I  have  no 
room    for    enumerations,   which    moreover    would  be 
invidious;  but  the  old  London  of  her  talk — the  direc- 
tion I  liked  it  best  to  take — was  in  particular  a  gallery 
of  portraits.     She  made  Count  d'Orsay  familiar,  she 
made  Charles  Greville  present ;  I  thought  it  wonderful 
that  she  could  be   anecdotic  about  Miss   Edgeworth. 
She  reanimated  the  old  drawing-rooms,  relighted  the 
old  lamps,  retuned  the  old  pianos.     The  finest  comedy 
of  all,  perhaps,  was  that  of  her  own  generous  whimsi- 
calities.    She  was  superbly  willing  to  amuse,  and  on 
any  terms,  and  her  temper  could  do  it  as  well  as  her 
wit.     If  either  of  these  had  failed,  her  eccentricities 
were  always  there.     She  had,  indeed,  so  much  finer  a 
sense  of  comedy  than  any  one  else  that  she  herself 
knew  best,   as  well  as  recked  least,   how  she  might 
exhilarate.     I  remember  that  at  the  play  she   often 
said,   "Yes,  they're  funny;    but  they  don't    begin  to 
know    how    funny  they    might    be!"      Mrs.    Kemble 
always  knew,   and  her    good-humor   effectually  fore- 
armed her.     She  had  more  "habits"  than  most  people 
have  room  in  life  for,  and  a  theory  that  to  a  person  of 
her  disposition  they  were  as  necessary  as  the  close 
meshes  of   a  strait  waistcoat.     If  she  had  not   lived 


By  HENRY   JAMES  37 

by  rule  (on  her  showing),  she  would  have  lived 
infallibly  by  riot.  Her  rules  and  her  riots,  her  reser- 
vations and  her  concessions,  all  her  luxuriant  theory 
and  all  her  extravagant  practice,  her  drollery  that 
mocked  at  her  melancholy,  her  imagination  that 
mocked  at  her  drollery,  and  her  rare  forms  and  per- 
sonal traditions  that  mocked  a  little  at  everything — 
these  were  part  of  the  constant  freshness  which  made 
those  who  loved  her  love  her  so  much,  "If  my  serv- 
ants can  live  with  me  a  week  they  can  live  with  me 
forever,"  she  often  said;  "but  the  first  week  some- 
times kills  them."  I  know  not  what  friends  it  may 
also  have  killed,  but  very  fully  how  many  it  spared; 
and  what  dependants,  what  devotees,  what  faithful  and 
humble  affections  clung  to  her  to  the  end  and  after. 
A  domestic  who  had  been  long  in  her  service  quitted 
his  foreign  home  the  instant  he  heard  of  her  death, 
and,  travelling  for  thirty  hours,  arrived  travel-stained 
and  breathless,  like  a  messenger  in  a  romantic  tale, 
just  in  time  to  drop  a  handful  of  flowers  into  her 
grave. 


153801 


ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  From  "Essays  on  the 
English  Poets."  By  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 
BROWNING. 

O  THOSE  days  of  Elizabeth!  We  call  them  the 
days  of  Elizabeth,  but  the  glory  fell  over  the 
ridge,  in  illustration  of  the  half -century  beyond :  those 
days  of  Elizabeth!  Full  were  they  of  poets  as  the 
summer  days  are  of  birds : 

No  branch  on  which  a  fine  bird  did  not  sit, 
No  bird  but  his  sweet  song  did  shrilly  sing, 
No  song  but  did  contayne  a  lovely  dit. 

We  hear  of  the  dramatists ;  but  the  lyric  singers  were 
yet  more  numerous, — there  were  singers  in  every  class. 
Never  since  the  first  nightingale  brake  voice  in  Eden, 
arose  such  a  jubilee-concert:  never  before  nor  since 
has  such  a  crowd  of  true  poets  uttered  true  poetic 
speech  in  one  day.  Not  in  England  evermore!  Not 
in  Greece,  that  we  know.  Not  in  Rome,  by  what  we 
know.  Talk  of  their  Augustan  era — we  will  not  talk 
of  it,  lest  we  desecrate  our  own  of  Elizabeth.  The 
latter  was  rightly  prefigured  by  our  figure  of  the 
chorus  of  swans.  It  was  besides  the  milky  way  of 
poetry :  it  was  the  miracle-age  of  poetical  history.  We 
may  fancy  that  the  master-souls  of  Shakespeare  and 
Spenser,  breathing,  stirring  in  divine  emotion,  shot 
vibratory  life  through  other  souls  in  electric  associa- 
tion :  we  may  hear,  in  fancy,  one  wind  moving  every 
leaf  in  a  forest — one  voice  responded  to  by  a  thousand 
rock-echoes.  Why,  a  common  man  walking  through 
the  earth  in  those  days,  grew  a  poet  by  position — even 
as  a  child's  shadow  cast  upon  a  mountain  slope  is 
dilated  to  the  aspect  of  a  giant's. 

38 


By  ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING    39 

If  we,  for  our  own  parts,  did  enact  a  Briareus,  we 
might  count  these  poets  on  the  fingers  of  our  hundred 
hands,  after  the  fashion  of  the  poets  of  Queen  Anne's 
time,  counting  their  syllables.  We  do  not  talk  of  them 
as  "faultless  monsters,"  however  wonderful  in  the 
multitude  and  verity  of  their  gifts:  their  faults  were 
numerous,  too.  Many  poets  of  an  excellent  sweetness, 
thinking  of  poetry  that,  like  love, 

It  was  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, — 
fell  poetry-sick,  as  they  might  fall  love-sick,  and 
knotted  associations,  far  and  free  enough  to  girdle  the 
earth  withal,  into  true  love-knots  of  quaintest  devices. 
Many  poets  affected  novelty  rather  than  truth ;  and 
many  attained  to  novelty  rather  by  attitude  than  alti- 
tude, whether  of  thought  or  word.  Worst  of  all,  many 
were  incompetent  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  ordeal — the 
translation  of  their  verses  into  prose — and  would  have 
perished  utterly  by  that  hot  ploughshare.  Still,  the 
natural  healthy  eye  turns  toward  the  light,  and  the 
true  calling  of  criticism  remains  the  distinguishing  of 
beauty.  Love  and  honor  to  the  poets  of  Elizabeth — 
honor  and  love  to  them  all ! 


REFLECTIONS     IN     WESTMINSTER     ABBEY. 
From  "The  Spectator." 

WHEN  I  am  in  a  serious  humour,  I  very  often 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey ;  where 
the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to  which  it  is 
applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  building,  and  the 
condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill  the 
mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtful- 
ness,  that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed  a 
whole  afternoon  in  the  churchyard,  the  cloisters,  and 
the  church,  amusing  myself  with  the  tomb-stones  and 
inscriptions  that  I  met  with  in  those  several  regions  of 
the  dead.  Most  of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the 
buried  person,  but  that  he  was  born  upon  one  day,  and 
died  upon  another;  the  whole  history  of  his  life  being 
comprehended  in  those  two  circumstances  that  are 
common  to  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but  look  upon 
these  registers  of  existence,  whether  of  brass  or  mar- 
ble, as  a  kind  of  satire  upon  the  departed  persons ;  who 
had  left  no  other  memorial  of  them,  but  that  they  were 
born,  and  that  they  died.  They  put  me  in  mind  of 
several  persons  mentioned  in  the  battles  of  heroic 
poems,  who  have  sounding  names  given  them,  for  no 
other  reason  but  that  they  may  be  killed,  and  are  cele- 
brated for  nothing  but  being  knocked  on  the  head. 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in  holy  writ 
by  "the  path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is  immediately 
closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained  myself 
with  the  digging  of  a  grave ;  and  saw  in  every  shovel- 
ful of  it  that  was  thrown  up  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or 
skull  intermixed  with  a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering  earth 
that  some  time  or  other  had  a  place  in  the  composition 

40 


From  "THE    SPECTATOR"  41 

of  a  human  body.  Upon  this  I  began  to  consider  with 
myself,  what  innumerable  multitudes  of  people  lay 
confused  together  under  the  pavement  of  that  ancient 
cathedral;  how  men  and  women,  friends  and  enemies, 
priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries,  were 
crumbled  amongst  one  another,  and  blended  together 
in  the  same  common  mass;  how  beauty,  strength,  and 
youth,  with  old  age,  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay 
undistinguished,  in  the  same  promiscuous  heap  of 
matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  magazine  of 
mortality,  as  it  were  in  the  lump,  I  examined  it  more 
particularly  by  the  accounts  which  I  found  on  several 
of  the  monuments  which  are  raised  in  every  quarter  of 
that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them  were  covered  with 
such  extravagant  epitaphs,  that  if  it  were  possible  for 
the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted  with  them,  he  would 
blush  at  the  praises  which  his  friends  have  bestowed 
upon  him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  modest, 
that  they  deliver  the  character  of  the  person  departed 
in  Greek  or  Hebrew,  and  by  that  means  are  not  under- 
stood once  in  a  twelvemonth.  In  the  poetical  quarter, 
I  found  there  were  poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and 
monuments  which  had  no  poets.  I  observed,  indeed, 
that  the  present  war  had  filled  the  church  with  many 
of  these  uninhabited  monuments,  which  had  been 
erected  to  the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  were 
perhaps  buried  in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or  in  the 
bosom  of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with  several 
modern  epitaphs,  which  are  written  with  great  ele- 
gance of  expression  and  justness  of  thought,  and  there- 
fore do  honour  to  the  living  as  well  as  the  dead.     As  a 


42       REFLECTIONS  in  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

foreigner  is  very  apt  to  conceive  an  idea  of  the  igno- 
rance or  politeness  of  a  nation  from  the  turn  of  their 
public  monuments  and  inscriptions,  they  should  be 
submitted  to  the  perusal  of  men  of  learning  and  genius 
before  they  are  put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesley  Sho- 
vel's monument  has  very  often  given  me  great  offence. 
Instead  of  the  brave  rough  English  admiral,  which  was 
the  distinguishing  character  of  that  plain  gallant  man, 
he  is  represented  on  his  tomb  by  the  figure  of  a  beau, 
dressed  in  a  long  periwig,  and  reposing  himself  upon 
velvet  cushions,  under  a  canopy  of  state.  The  inscrip- 
tion is  answerable  to  the  monument;  for  instead  of 
celebrating  the  many  remarkable  actions  he  had  per- 
formed in  the  service  of  his  country,  it  acquaints  us 
only  with  the  manner  of  his  death,  in  which  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  reap  any  honour.  The  Dutch, 
whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for  want  of  genius,  show 
an  infinitely  greater  taste  of  antiquity  and  politeness  in 
their  buildings  and  works  of  this  nature,  than  what  we 
meet  with  in  those  of  our  own  country.  The  monu- 
ments of  their  admirals,  which  have  been  erected  at 
the  public  expense,  represent  them  like  themselves, 
and  are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns  and  naval  orna- 
ments, with  beautiful  festoons  of  sea-weed,  shells,  and 
coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the  reposi- 
tory of  our  English  kings  for  the  contemplation  of 
another  day,  when  I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed  for  so 
serious  an  amusement.  I  know  that  entertainments  of 
this  nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in 
timorous  minds,  and  gloomy  imaginations;  but  for  my 
own  part,  though  I  am  always  serious,  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  be  melancholy ;    and  can  therefore  take  a 


From  "THE    SPECTATOR"  43 

view  of  nature,  in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes,  with 
the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and  delightful 
ones.  By  this  means  I  can  improve  myself  with  those 
objects,  v/hich  others  consider  with  terror.  When  I 
look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of 
envy  dies  in  me;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the 
beautiful,  every  inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I 
meet  with  the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tomb  stone,  my 
heart  melts  with  compassion ;  when  I  see  the  tomb  of 
the  parents  themselves,  I  consider  the  vanity  of  griev- 
ing for  those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow.  When  I 
see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when  I 
consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  holy  men 
that  divided  the  world  with  their  contests  and  disputes, 
I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little 
competitions,  factions,  and  debates  of  mankind.  When 
I  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that 
died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  con- 
sider that  great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  con- 
temporaries, and  make  our  appearance  together. 


DR.   HALE    ON    EMERSON.      From    the    "Boston 
Herald." 

DR.  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE  addressed  the 
Twentieth  Century  Club  last  night  in  their 
room,  14  Ashburton  Place,  on  "The  Influence  of 
Emerson."  In  introducing  the  speaker.  President 
Edwin  D.  Mead  recalled  the  fact  that  Dr.  Hale  had 
christened  the  club  five  years  ago  with  an  address  upon 
Phillips  Brooks,  and  would  now  close  the  fifth  year  of 
the  organization  with  a  paper  on  the  man  whom  J.  R. 
Lowell  called  the  Yankee  Plato  and  Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes 
the  Buddha  of  the  West. 

Dr.  Hale  began  with  some  reflections  upon  the  uni- 
versality of  Emersonian  ideas  in  society  to-day.  "No 
matter  to  what  church  you  may  go,"  said  he,  "you  will 
hear  Emerson  from  the  pulpit.  From  the  fact  that 
two  publishing  houses  in  this  country  have  sold  about 
2,500,000  copies  of  his  essays  during  the  past  few 
years,  it  has  been  estimated  that  one  family  out  of 
every  four  in  the  United  States  has  one  of  his  books. 

"He  was  my  friend  for  many  years,  visited  repeat- 
edly at  my  house,  and  talked  familiarly  as  one  does 
with  a  friend.  The  thing  I  want  to  emphasize  is  his 
deep  and  tender  sympathy  with  all  men,  and  his  way 
of  applying  all  his  ideals  to  his  everyday  life.  He  hoed 
his  own  corn  on  his  Concord  farm,  lived  most  of  his 
life  in  comparative  poverty,  went  to  the  postoffice 
early  in  order  to  have  a  chance  to  talk  with  the  men 
about  the  door,  and  bought  cheap  mutton  bones  to 
keep  down  expenses.  Here  is  where  the  difference 
appears  between  the  great  idealist  and  the  chipped-off 
reformers  who  disgrace  the  name.  So  unworldly  was 
he,  so  completely  devoted  to  his  mission  of  preaching 

44 


From  the  "BOSTON    HERALD"  45 

the  greatness  of  truth  and  right,  that  at  the  age  of 
forty-six  he  received  his  first  check  from  a  publisher, 
and  did  not  know  how  to  cash  it.  His  books  had  then 
been  before  the  public  for  sixteen  years. 

"In  the  last  nineteen  centuries,"  said  Dr.  Hale,  "I 
can  think  of  only  five  or  six  great  prophets  who  have 
been  strong  and  brave  enough  to  stand  alone  by  them- 
selves, and  take  their  knowledge  direct  from  the  Father 
God,  and  then  speak  it  forth  to  the  world.  Thousands 
of  others  have  been  to  the  original  source,  but  have  not 
told  the  rest  of  us  about  it.  But  the  great  majority  of 
men  are  turned  aside  by  the  sirens  of  wealth,  or  some- 
thing else  commanding  stones  to  be  made  bread,  and 
so  have  lost  the  power  that  was  in  them. 

"The  last  of  these  great  world  prophets,  of  this  inner 
circle  of  five  or  six  that  I  have  mentioned,  was  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson.  He  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus  Christ 
teaching  men  to  go  directly  to  God  the  Father,  climb 
like  a  little  child  upon  his  knee  and  tell  him  all  the 
troubles  of  life,  leaving  cares  with  him.  To  Emerson 
the  life  of  God  is  the  same  as  that  which  pulsates  in 
the  hearts  of  men  and  it  reaches  out  beyond  the  limits 
of  Arcturus  and  Orion.  His  common  words  exalted 
themselves  into  the  oracles  of  our  times,  which  compel 
us  to  see  something  of  our  Father's  business,  of  the 
exalted  human  life  that  is  open  to  the  kings  and  priests 
of  God." 


MY  FIRST  PLAY.     From  "Essays  of    Elia."     Con- 
densed by  the  Editor.     By  CHARLES  LAMB. 

AT  the  north  end  of  Cross  Court  there  yet  stands  a 
portal,  of  some  architectural  pretensions,  though 
reduced  to  humble  use,  serving  at  present  for  an 
entrance  to  a  printing-office.  This  old  door-way,  if 
you  are  young,  reader,  you  may  not  know  was  the 
identical  pit  entrance  to  old  Drury — Garrick's  Drur}'- — 
all  of  it  that  is  left.  I  never  pass  it  without  shaking" 
some  forty  years  from  off  my  shoulders,  recurring  to 
the  evening  when  I  passed  through  it  to  see  my  first 
play.  The  afternoon  had  been  wet,  and  the  condition 
of  our  going  (the  elder  folks  and  myself)  was  that  the 
rain  should  cease.  With  what  a  beating  heart  did  I 
watch  from  the  window  the  puddles,  from  the  stillness 
of  which  I  was  taught  to  prognosticate  the  desired 
cessation!  I  seem  to  remember  the  last  spurt,  and 
the  glee  with  which  I  ran  to  announce  it. 

In  those  days  were  pit  orders.  Beshrew  the  uncom- 
fortable manager  who  abolished  them! — with  one  of 
these  we  went.  I  remember  the  waiting  at  the  door — 
not  that  which  is  left — but  between  that  and  an  inner 
door  in  shelter — O,  when  shall  I  be  such  an  expectant 
again! — with  the  cry  of  nonpareils,  an  indispensable 
playhouse  accompaniment  in  those  days.  As  near  as 
I  can  recollect,  the  fashionable  pronunciation  of  the 
theatrical  fruiteresses  then  was,  "Chase  some  oranges, 
chase  some  numparels,  chase  a  bill  of  the  play;" — 
chase  pro  chuse.  But  when  we  got  in,  and  I  beheld 
the  green  curtain  that  veiled  a  heaven  to  my  imagina- 
tion, which  was  soon  to  be  disclosed, — the  breathless 
anticipations  I  endured!  I  had  seen  something  like  it 
in  the  plate  prefixed  to  Troilus  and  Cressida,  in  Rowe's 

46 


By  CHARLES  LAMB  47 

vSliakspeare, — the  tent  scene  with  Diomede, — and  a 
sight  of  that  plate  can  always  bring  back  in  a  measure 
the  feeling  of  that  evening.  The  boxes  at  that  time, 
full  of  well-dressed  women  of  quality,  projected  over 
the  pit ;  and  the  pilasters  reaching  down  were  adorned 
with  a  glistering  substance  (I  know  not  what)  imder 
glass  (as  it  seemed)  resembling — a  homely  fancy — but 
I  judged  it  to  be  sugar-candy, — yet,  to  my  raised 
imagination,  divested  of  its  homelier  qualities  it 
appeared  a  glorified  candy!  The  orchestra  lights  at 
length  arose,  those  "fair  Auroras!"  Once  the  bell 
sounded.  It  was  to  ring  out  yet  once  again, — and 
incapable  of  the  anticipation,  I  reposed  my  shut  eyes 
in  a  sort  of  resignation  upon  the  maternal  lap.  It  rang 
the  second  time.  The  curtain  drew  up, — I  was  not 
past  six  years  old,  and  the  play  was  Artaxerxes! 

I  had  dabbled  a  little  in  the  Universal  History, — the 
ancient  part  of  it, — and  here  was  the  court  of  Persia. 
It  was  being  admitted  to  a  sight  of  the  past.  I  took  no 
proper  interest  in  the  action  going  on,  for  I  understood 
not  its  import, — but  I  heard  the  word  Darius,  and  I 
was  in  the  midst  of  Daniel.  All  feeling  was  absorbed 
in  vision.  Gorgeous  vests,  gardens,  palaces,  prin- 
cesses, passed  before  me.  I  knew  not  players.  I  was 
in  Persepolis  for  the  time,  and  the  burning  idol  of  their 
devotion  almost  converted  me  into  a  worshipper.  I 
was  awe-struck,  and  believed  those  significations  to  be 
something  more  than  elemental  fires.  It  was  all 
enchantment  and  a  dream.  No  such  pleasure  has 
since  visited  me  but  in  dreams.  Harlequin's  invasion 
followed;  where,  I  remember,  the  transformation  of  the 
magistrates  into  reverend  beldams  seemed  to  me  a 
piece  of  grave  historic  justice,  and  the  tailor  carrying 


48  MY    FIRST    PLAY 

his  own  head  to  be  as  sober  a  verity  as  the  legend  of 
St.  Denys. 

The  next  play  to  which  I  was  taken  was  "The  Lady 
of  the  Manor,"  of  which,  with  the  exception  of  some 
scenery,  very  faint  traces  are  left  in  my  memory.  It 
was  followed  by  a  pantomime,  called  "Lun's  Ghost. " 
I  saw  the  primeval  Motley  come  from  his  silent  tomb 
in  a  ghastly  vest  of  white  patchwork,  like  the  appari- 
tion of  a  dead  rainbow.  So  Harlequins  (thought  I) 
look  when  they  are  dead. 

My  third  play  followed  in  quick  succession.  It  was 
"The  Way  of  the  World."  I  think  I  must  have  sat  at 
it  as  grave  as  a  judge ;  for,  I  remember,  the  hysteric 
affectations  of  good  Lady  Wishfort  affected  me  like 
some  solemn  tragic  passion.  Robinson  Crusoe  fol- 
lowed; in  which  Crusoe,  man  Friday,  and  the  parrot, 
were  as  good  and  authentic  as  in  the  story.  The 
clownery  and  pantaloonery  of  these  pantomimes  have 
clean  passed  out  of  my  head.  I  believe  I  no  more 
laughed  at  them  than  at  the  same  age  I  should  have 
been  disposed  to  laugh  at  the  grotesque  Gothic  heads 
(seeming  to  me  then  replete  with  devout  meaning) 
that  gape,  and  grin,  in  stone  around  the  inside  of  the 
old  Round  Church  (my  church)  of  the  Templars. 

I  saw  these  plays  in  the  season  of  178 1-2,  when  I  was 
from  six  to  seven  years  old.  After  the  intervention  of 
six  or  seven  other  years  (for  at  school  all  play-going 
was  inhibited)  I  again  entered  the  doors  of  a  theatre. 
That  old  Artaxerxes  evening  had  never  done  ringing 
in  my  fancy.  I  expected  the  same  feelings  to  come 
again  with  the  same  occasion.  But  we  differ  from 
ourselves  less  at  sixty  and  sixteen  than  the  latter  does 
from  six.     In  that  interval  what  had  I  not  lost!     At 


By  CHARLES    LAMB  49 

the  first  period  I  knew  nothing,  understood  nothing-, 
discriminated  nothing.  I  felt  all,  loved  all,  wondered 
all— 

"Was  nourished,  I  could  not  tell  how, — " 

I  had  left  the  temple  a  devotee,  and  was  returned  a 
rationalist.  The  same  things  were  there  materially; 
but  the  emblem,  the  reference,  was  gone!  The  lights 
— the  orchestra  lights — came  up  a  clumsy  machinery. 
The  first  ring,  and  the  second  ring,  was  now  but  a 
trick  of  the  prompter's  bell — which  had  been,  like  the 
note  of  the  cuckoo,  a  phantom  of  a  voice,  no  hand  seen 
or  guessed  at  which  ministered  to  its  warning.  The 
actors  were  men  and  women  painted.  I  thought  the 
fault  was  in  them ;  but  it  was  in  myself,  and  the  alter- 
ation which  those  many  centuries — of  six  short  twelve- 
months— had  wrought  in  me.  Perhaps  it  was 
fortunate  for  me  that  the  play  of  the  evening  was  but 
an  indifferent  comedy,  as  it  gave  me  time  to  crop  some 
unreasonable  expectations,  which  might  have  inter- 
fered with  the  genuine  emotions  with  which  I  was  soon 
after  enabled  to  enter  upon  the  first  appearance  to  me 
of  Mrs.  Siddons  in  Isabella.  Comparison  and  retro- 
spection soon  yielded  to  the  present  attraction  of  the 
scene ;  and  the  theatre  became  to  me,  upon  a  new 
stock,  the  most  delightful  of  recreations. 


ON  DOGS  AND  CATS.     Translated  by  Jessie  Hen- 
derson Brewer.     By  ALEXANDER  DUMAS. 

IT  is  admitted  that  the  dog  has  intelligence,  a  heart 
and  perhaps  a  soul,  likewise  it  is  agreed  that  the 
cat  is  a  traitor,  deceiver,  thief,  an  egotist,  an  ingrate. 
How  many  have  we  not  heard  say:  "Oh,  I  cannot 
abide  a  cat!  it  is  an  animal  that  loves  not  its  master;  it 
is  attached  only  to  the  house;  one  must  keep  it  under 
lock  and  key.  I  had  one  once,  for  I  was  in  the  country 
and  there  were  mice.  The  cook  had  the  imprudence 
to  leave  upon  the  table  a  poulet  that  she  had  just  pur- 
chased ;  the  cat  carried  it  off,  no  morsel  of  it  was  ever 
seen  after.  Since  that  day  I  have  said:  'I  will  have 
no  cat'  "  Its  reputation  is  detestable,  the  fact  cannot 
be  disguised,  and  one  must  acknowledge  that  the  cat 
does  nothing  to  modify  the  opinion  in  which  it  is  held. 
It  is  entirely  unpopular,  but  it  cares  as  little  about  this 
as  it  does  about  the  Grand  Turk.  Must  I  confess  it  to 
you?  It  is  for  this  that  I  love  it,  for  in  this  world  one 
can  remain  indifferent  to  things  the  most  serious — if 
there  are  serious  things,  and  this,  one  knows  only  at 
the  end  of  his  life ;  but  he  cannot  evade  the  question  of 
dogs  and  cats.  There  is  always  a  moment  when  he 
must  declare  himself.  Well,  then!  I  love  cats!  Ah! 
the  times  they  have  said  to  me: 

"What,  you  love  cats?" 

"Yes!" 

"Do  you  not  like  dogs  better?" 

"No,  I  love  cats  much  more." 

"That  is  extraordinary." 

I  prefer  certainly  to  have  neither  cat  nor  dog,  but 
were  I  forced  to  live  with  one  of  these  two  individuals, 
I  would  choose  the  cat.     It  has  for  me  the   manners 

50 


By  ALEXANDER   DUMAS  51 

essential  to  social  relations.  At  first,  in  its  early- 
youth,  It  possesses  all  the  graces,  all  the  suppleness, 
all  the  unexpectedness  by  which  the  most  exacting, 
artistic  fancy  can  be  amused!  It  is  adroit,  it  always 
knows  where  it  is.  Prudent  unto  caution,  it  goes 
everywhere,  it  examines  without  soiling,  breaking 
nothing;  it  is  in  itself  a  warmth  and  a  caress;  it  has 
not  a  snout,  but  a  mouth — and  what  a  mouth!  It 
steals  the  mutton  as  does  the  dog,  but,  unlike  the 
latter,  makes  no  delight  of  carrion;  it  is  discreet  and 
of  fastidious  cleanliness,  which  might  be  well  imitated 
by  a  number  of  its  detractors.  It  washes  its  face,  and 
in  so  doing  foretells  the  weather  into  the  bargain. 
One  can  entertain  the  idea  of  putting  a  ribbon  around 
its  neck,  never  a  collar;  it  cannot  be  enslaved.  It  per- 
mits no  modifications  in  its  race ;  it  lends  itself  to  no 
combinations  that  industries  could  attempt.  The  cat 
reflects,  this  is  obvious,  contrary  to  the  dog,  a  lackbrain 
whose  rabies  is  his  crowning  idiocy.  In  short,  the  cat 
is  a  dignified,  proud,  disdainful  animal  that  conceals 
its  fonctions  basses,  that  hides  its  love  affairs  in  the 
shadows,  almost  within  the  clouds,  upon  the  roofs,  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  night-working  students.  It  defies 
advances,  and  tolerates  no  insults,  it  abandons  the 
house  in  which  it  is  not  treated  according  to  its  merits; 
in  short,  the  cat  is  truly  an  aristocrat  in  type  and 
origin,  whereas  the  dog  is  and  ever  will  be  naught  but  a 
vulgar  parvenu  by  dint  of  complaisance. 

The  sole  argument  at  all  plausible  against  the  cat  is 
that  it  destroys  the  birds,  the  nightingales  as  well  as 
the  sparrows.  If  the  dog  does  not  as  much  it  is 
because  he  is  too  clumsy  and  stupid.  He  runs  also 
after  the  birds,  but  barking,  the  birds  escape  him,  and 


52  On  DOGS  and  CATS 

he  stays  behind  completely  dumbfounded,  open- 
mouthed  and  with  astonished  tail.  He  makes  up  for  it 
upon  the  partridges  and  rabbits,  after  two  years'  sub- 
mission to  the  strong  collar  in  order  to  learn  this  art, 
and  it  is  not  for  himself,  but  for  the  hunter,  that  he 
goes  in  quest  of  game.  The  imbecile !  He  persecutes 
the  animals,  an  animal  himself,  for  the  profit  of  the 
man  who  beats  him.  At  least,  when  the  cat  catches  a 
bird  she  has  an  excuse ;  it  is  to  eat  it  herself.  Why 
would  that  authorize  man  to  slander  her?  Let  men 
regard  one  another!  They  will  see  in  their  race,  as  in 
that  of  cats,  those  who  have  claws  have  no  other  pre- 
occupation but  to  destroy  those  who  have  wings. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  From  "Sketch-Book."  Con- 
densed by  the  Editor  from  the  First  American  and 
English  Edition.     By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson 
must  remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  At 
the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  vil- 
lage, whose  shingle  roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just 
where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the 
fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  vil- 
lage of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by  some 
of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the  early  times  of  the 
province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government 
of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in  peace!). 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 

(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn 

and    weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,. 

while  the  country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain, 

a  simple  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van 

Winkle.     He  was  moreover  a  kind  neighbour,  and  an 

obedient  henpecked  husband.     Indeed,  to   the  latter 

•circumstance  might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit 

which  gained  him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those 

:men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious   and  conciliating 

.abroad,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuper- 
able aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labour.  It 
could  not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  persever- 
ance ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as 
long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day 
without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be 
encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a 
fowling-piece   on  his    shoulder,    for    hours    together, 

53 


54  RIP   VAN   WINKLE 

trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and 
down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons. 
In  a  word.  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anj^body's  busi- 
ness but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty,  and 
keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they 
belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten 
in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with 
the  old  clothes  of  his  father. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  v/ell-oiled  dispositions,  who  take 
the  world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever 
can  be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would 
rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If 
left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away,  in 
perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife  kept  continually 
dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness, 
and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  famil5\ 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who 
was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van 
Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and 
even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause 
of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on:  a  tart  temper  never 
mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edge 
tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long 
while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 
village,  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  his  maj- 
esty George  the  Third.     Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the 


By  WASHINGTON   IRVING  55 

shade,  of  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly 
over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories 
about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth  any 
statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discus- 
sions which  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an 
old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands,  from  some  passing 
traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  con- 
tents, as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the 
schoolmaster,  a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the 
dictionary;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon 
public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place ! 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  con- 
trolled by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village, 
and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took 
his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  suffi- 
ciently to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree ;  so  that  the  neighbours  could  tell  the  hour 
by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  sud- 
denly break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage, 
and  call  the  members  all  to  nought;  nor  was  that 
august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who 
charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 
habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair,  and 
his  only  alternative  to  escape  from  the  labour  of  the 
farm  and  the  clamour  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in 
hand,  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would 
sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share 
the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he 


56  RIP   VAN   WINKLE 

sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution. 
"Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "thy  mistress  leads  thee  a 
dog's  life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live 
thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee!" 
Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's 
face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he 
reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine  autumnal 
day.  Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the 
highest  parts  of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains, 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van 
Winkle!"  He  looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing 
but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun- 
tain. He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  hea,rd  the  same 
cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van 
Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"— at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over 
him:  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and 
perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks, 
and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried 
on  his  back. 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised  at 
the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was 
a  short  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair, 
and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion — a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist 
— several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  side, 
and  bunches  at  the  knees.     He  bore  on  his  shoulders  a 


By  WASHINGTON   IRVING  57 

stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs 
for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the  load. 
Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaint- 
ance. Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity,  and 
mutually  relieving  each  other,  they  clambered  up  a 
narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain 
torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then 
heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that 
seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft 
between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged  path 
conducted.  He  paused  for  an  instant,  but  supposing 
it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient  thunder- 
showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain  heights,  he 
proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to 
a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  per- 
pendicular precipices,  over  the  brink  of  which,  Impend- 
ing trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught 
glimpses  of  the  azure  sky,  and  the  bright  evening  cloud. 
During  the  whole  time.  Rip  and  his  companion  had 
laboured  on  in  silence;  for  though  the  former  mar- 
velled greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carry- 
ing a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there 
was  something  strange  and  incomprehensible  about 
the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe,  and  checked  famil- 
iarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  won- 
der presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre 
was  a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at 
nine-pins.  They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish 
fashion:  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins, 
with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had 
enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the 
guide's.     Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar:  one  had  a 


58  RIP   VAN   WINKLE 

large  head,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes;  the 
face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and 
was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  ofE  with 
a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various 
shapes  and  colours.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to 
be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman, 
with  a  weather-beaten  countenance;  he  wore  a  laced 
doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with 
roses  in  them. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they 
suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him 
with  such  a  fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange, 
uncouth,  lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart 
turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His 
companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into 
large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the 
company.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then 
returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees,  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him, 
to  taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the 
flavour  of  excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a 
thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another,  and  he  reiter- 
ated his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his 
senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head, 
his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  from 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He 
rubbed   his  eyes — it  was    a    bright    sunny    morning. 


By  WASHINGTON   IRVING  59; 

"Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I  have  not  slept  here  all 
night." 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock 
lying  by  him,  the  barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock 
falling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  sus- 
pected that  the  grave  roysters  of  the  mountain  had  put 
a  trick  upon  him,  and  having  dosed  him  with  liquor, 
had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disap- 
peared, but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel 
or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted  his 
name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle 
and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the 
joints,  and  v/anting  in  his  usual  activity.  "These 
mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with  me, ' '  thought  Rip, 
"and  if  this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the 
rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame 
Van  Winkle."  The  morning  was  passing  away,  and 
Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He 
grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  g^n;  he  dreaded  to 
meet  his  wife;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the 
mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty 
firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety, 
turned  his  step  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  sur- 
prised him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with 
every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too, 
was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was 
accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks 
of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  eyes  upon  him, 
invariably  stroked   their  chins.     The  constant  recur- 


6o  RIP   VAN   WINKLE 

rence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do 
the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his 
beard  had  grown  a  foot  long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  His 
mind  now  misgave  him;  he  began  to  doubt  whether 
both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched. 
Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had  left 
but  a  day  before. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to 
his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe, 
expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of 
Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay 
— the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and  the 
doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog,  that  looked 
like  Wolf,  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by 
name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and 
passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed.  "My 
very  dog,"  sighed  Rip,  "has  forgotten  me!" 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort, 
the  village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety 
wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping 
windows,  some  of  them  broken,  and  mended  with  old 
hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted, 
"The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead 
of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little 
Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall  naked 
pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red 
night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which 
was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes — all  this 
was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  recognized  on 
the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under 
which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe,  but 
even   this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.      The   red 


By  WASHINGTON    IRVING  6i 

coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was 
held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was 
decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was 
painted  in  large  characters, 

GENERAL   WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of 
the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bus- 
tling, disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accus- 
tomed phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the 
army  of  women  and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his 
heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  poli- 
ticians. They  crowded  round  him,  eyeing  him  from 
head  to  foot,  with  great  curiosity.  A  man  bustled  up 
to  him,  and  drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired,  "on 
which  side  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity. 
Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by 
the  arm,  and  rising  on  tip-toe,  inquired  in  his  ear, 
"whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat." 

"Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed, 
"I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a 
loyal  subject  of  the  King,  God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "A 
tory !  a  tory !  a  spy !  a  refugee !  hustle  him !  away  with 
him!"  The  poor  man  humbly  assured  them  that  he 
meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some 
of  his  neighbours,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"Where's  Nicholas  Vedder?" 


62  RIP   VAN   WINKLE 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old 
man  replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder? 
why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years!  There 
was  a  wooden  tomb-stone  in  the  church-yard  that  used 
to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too,  was  a  great  militia 
general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away,  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself 
thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him, 
too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and 
of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand:  war — Con- 
gress— Stony-Point! — he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after 
any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "Does 
nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three. 
"Oh,  to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  lean- 
ing against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  him- 
self as  he  went  up  the  mountain ;  apparently  as  lazy, 
and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now 
completely  confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity, 
and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man. 

At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh  comely  woman 
passed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray- 
bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms, 
which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry.  "Hush, 
Rip,"  she  cried,  "hush,  you  little  fool;  the  old  man 
won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of 
the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train 
of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "What  is  your  name,  my 
good  woman?"  asked  he. 


By  WASHINGTON    IRVING  63 

'■Judith  Gardenier. " 

"And  your  father's  name?" 

"Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Van  Winkle;  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his 
gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came 
home  without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or 
was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I 
was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put  it 
with  a  faltering  voice : 

"Where's  your  mother?" 

Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since;  she 
broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-Eng- 
land pedlar. 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelli- 
gence. The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no 
longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his 
arms.  "I  am  your  father!"  cried  he — "Young  Rip 
Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now!  Does 
nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 
peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed, 
"Sure  enough!  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself. 
Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbour.  Why,  where 
have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years 
had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night. 


BROWNING'S  FIRST  MANUSCRIPT.  From 
"Robert  Browning  Personalia. "  Copyright,  1890,  by 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company.  Reprinted  with  per- 
mission.    By  EDMUND  GOSSE. 

ROBERT  BROWNING  can  hardly  remember  a 
time  when  his  intention  was  not  to  be  eminent 
in  rhyme,  and  he  began  to  write  at  least  as  early  as 
Cowley.  His  sister  remembers  him,  as  a  very  little 
boy,  walking  round  and  round  the  dining-room  table, 
and  spanning  out  the  scansion  of  his  verses  with  his 
hand  on  the  smooth  mahogany.  When  he  was  about 
eight  years  old,  this  ambitious  young  person  disdained 
the  narrow  field  of  poetry,  and,  while  retaining  that 
sceptre,  debated  within  himself,  as  Dryden  says  Anne 
Killegrew  did,  whether  he  should  invade  and  conquer 
the  province  of  painting  or  that  of  music.  It  soon 
became  plain  to  him,  however,  that,  as  he  himself  put 
it  thirty-five  years  later: 

"I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 
Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 
Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me: 
.  .  .  Verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me," 

and  he  began  writing  with  assiduity.  It  is  curious  to 
reflect  that  all  the  giants  were  alive  in  those  days — not 
even  Keats  himself  laid  to  sleep  under  the  Roman 
grasses. 

In  1824,  the  year  that  Byron  died,  the  boy  had  col- 
lected poems  enough  to  form  a  volume,  and  these  were 
taken  around  to  publisher  after  publisher,  but  in  vain. 
The  first  people  who  saw  the  nascent  genius  of  this  lad 
of  twelve  years  old  were  the  two  Misses  Flower,  the 
younger  afterward  authoress  of  Vivia  Perpetua,  and 
too  sadly  known  as  Sarah  Flower  Adams.     The  elder 

64 


By  EDMUND   GOSSE  65 

Miss  Flower  thought  the  poems  so  remarkable  that  she 
copied  them  and  showed  them  to  the  distinguished 
Unitarian,  the  Rev.  William  Johnson  Fox,  then  already 
influential  as  a  radical  politician  of  the  finer  order.  As 
a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Fox  was  too  judicious  to 
recommend  the  publication  of  poems  so  juvenile,  but 
he  ventured  to  prophesy  a  splendid  future  for  the  boy, 
and  he  kept  the  transcripts  in  his  possession.  To  Mr. 
Browning's  great  amusement,  after  the  death  of  Mr, 
Fox,  in  1864,  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Bridell-Fox,  returned 
the  MS.  to  the  author,  who  read  in  maturity  the  for- 
gotten verses  of  his  childhood. 


NEW    ENGLAND    CLIMATE    IN    SUMMER.      By 
RUFUS  CHOATE. 

TAKE  the  New  England  climate  in  summer,  you 
would  think  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end. 
Certain  recent  heresies  on  that  subject  may  have  had  a 
natural  origin  there.  Cold  to-day;  hot  to-morrow; 
mercury  at  80°  in  the  morning,  with  wind  at  south- 
west ;  and  in  three  hours  more  a  sea  turn,  wind  at  east, 
a  thick  fog  from  the  very  bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  a 
fall  of  forty  degrees  of  Fahrenheit ;  now  so  dry  as  to 
kill  all  the  beans  in  New  Hampshire;  then  floods 
carrying  off  the  bridges  of  the  Penobscot  and  Connecti- 
cut; snow  in  Portsmouth  in  July;  and  the  next  day  a 
man  and  a  yoke  of  oxen  killed  by  lightning  in  Rhode 
Island.  You  would  think  the  world  was  twenty  times 
coming  to  an  end.  But  I  do  not  know  how  it  is:  we 
go  along;  the  early  and  the  latter  rain  falls,  each  in  its 
season ;  and  seedtime  and  harvest  do  not  fail ;  the  sixty 
days  of  hot  corn  weather  are  pretty  sure  to  be  meas- 
ured out  to  us.  The  Indian  summer,  with  its  bland 
south-west  and  mitigated  sunshine,  brings  all  up;  and 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  November,  or  thereabouts,  being 
Thursday,  three  millions  of  grateful  people,  in  meet- 
ing-houses, or  around  the  family  board,  give  thanks 
for  a  year  of  health,  plenty,  and  happiness. 


66 


ANECDOTES.     From  "The  Jest  Book." 

EMPEROR   OF   CHINA. 

SIR  G.  STAUNTON  related  a  curious  anecdote  of 
old  Kien  Long,  Emperor  of  China.  He  was 
inquiring  of  Sir  George  the  manner  in  which  physi- 
cians were  paid  in  England.  When,  after  some  diffi- 
culty, his  majesty  was  made  to  comprehend  the  system, 
he  exclaimed,  "Is  any  man  well  in  England,  that  can 
afford  to  be  ill?  Now,  I  will  inform  you,"  said  he, 
"how  I  manage  my  physicians.  I  have  four,  to  whom 
the  care  of  my  health  is  committed :  a  certain  weekly 
salary  is  allowed  them,  but  the  moment  I  am  ill,  the 
salary  stops  till  I  am  well  again.  I  need  not  inform 
you  my  illnesses  are  usually  short." 

'    SUGGESTION. 

"Do  you  know  what  made  my  voice  so  melodious?" 
said  a  celebrated  vocal  performer,  of  awkward  man- 
ners, to  Charles  Bannister.  "No,"  replied  the  other. 
"Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you:  when  I  was  about  fifteen,  I 
swallowed,  by  accident,  some  train  oil."  "I  don't 
think,"  rejoined  Bannister,  "it  would  have  done  you 
any  harm  if,  at  the  same  time,  you  had  swallowed  a 
dancing-master ! ' ' 

THE   FORCE   OF   SATIRE. 

Jacob  Johnson,  the  publisher,  having  refused  to 
advance  Dryden  a  sum  of  money  for  a  work  upon 
which  he  was  engaged,  the  incensed  bard  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  him,  and  the  following  lines,  adding,  "Tell  the 
dog  that  he  who  wrote  these  can  write  more": 

With  leering  looks,  bull-necked,  and  freckled  face, 
With  two  left  legs,  and  Judas-colored  hair, 
And  frowsy  pores,  that  taint  the  ambient  air!  " 

67 


68  ANECDOTES 

Johnson  felt  the  force  of  the  description;  and,  to 
avoid  a  completion  of  the  portrait,  immediately  sent 
the  money. 

THE    ANGLO-FRENCH    ALLIANCE. 

Jerrold  was  in  France,  and  with  a  Frenchman  who 
was  enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of  the  Anglo-French 
alliance.  He  said  that  he  was  proud  to  see  the  English 
and  the  French  such  good  friends  at  last.  "Tut!  the 
best  thing  I  know  between  France  and  England  is — 
the  sea, ' '  said  Jerrold. 

AN    EFFORT   OF   MEMORY. 

"Would  you  think  it?"  said  A  to  B,  "Mr.  Roscius 
has  taken  a  week  to  study  a  Prologue  which  I  wrote  in 
a  day,"  "His  memory  is  evidently  not  so  good  as 
yours,"  replied  B. 

A    ROWLAND   FOR   AN   OLIVER. 

Mr.  Hawkins,  Q.  C,  engaged  in  a  cause  before  the 
late  Lord  Campbell,  had  frequently  to  mention  the 
damage  done  to  a  carriage  called  a  Brougham,  and 
this  word  he  pronounced,  according  to  its  orthography, 
Brougham. 

'If  my  learned  friend  will  adopt  the  usual  designa- 
tion, and  call  the  carriage  a  Bro'am,  it  will  save  the 
time  of  the  court,"  said  Lord  Campbell,  with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Hawkins  bowed  and  accepted  his  Lordship's 
pronunciation  of  the  word  during  the  remainder  of  his 
speech.  When  Lord  Campbell  proceeded  to  sum  up 
the  evidence,  he  had  to  refer  to  the  Omnibus  which 
had  damaged  the  Bro'am,  and  in  doing  so  pronounced 
the  word  also  according  to  its  orthography.  "I  beg 
your  Lordship's  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Hawkins,  very 
respectfully,  "but  if  your  Lordship  will  use  the  com- 


From  "THE   JEST   BOOK"  69 

mon  designation  for  such  a    vehicle,   and    call    it    a 

'Buss "     The  loud  laughter  which  ensued,  and  in 

which  his  Lordship  joined,  prevented  the  conclusion  of 
the  sentence. 

PROPER    DISTINCTION. 

An  undergraduate  had  unconsciously  strayed  into 
the  garden  of  a  certain  D.D.,  then  master  of  the  col- 
lege adjoining.     He  had  not  been  there  many  minutes, 

when   Dr.  entered  himself,   and,   perceiving  the 

student,  in  no  very  courteous  manner  desired  the 
young  gentleman  to  walk  out;  which  the  undergradu- 
ate, not  doing  (in  the  opinion  of  the  doctor)  in  suffi- 
cient haste,  Dominie  demanded,  rather  peremptorily, 
"whether  he  knew  who  he  was?"  at  the  same  time 

informing  the  intruder  that  he  was  Dr.  .     "That," 

replied  the  undergraduate,  "is  impossible;  for  Dr.  

is  a  gentleman,  and  you  are  a  blackguard!" 

TREASON. 

When  Patrick  Henry,  who  gave  the  first  impulse  to 
the  ball  of  the  American  Revolution,  introduced  his 
celebrated  resolution  on  the  Stamp  Act  into  the  House 
of  Burgesses  of  Virginia  (May,  1765),  he  exclaimed, 
when  descanting  on  the  tyranny  of  the  obnoxious  act, 
"Caesar  had  his  Brutus;  Charles  I.  his  Cromwell;  and 

George     III. "      "Treason!"    cried    the    speaker; 

"Treason,  treason!"  echoed  from  every  part  of  the 
house.  It  was  one  of  those  trying  moments  which  are 
decisive  of  character.  Henry  faltered  not  for  an 
instant ;  but  rising  to  a  loftier  attitude,  and  fixing  on 
the  speaker  an  eye  flashing  with  fire,  continued,  "May 
profit  by  their  example.  If  this  be  treason,  make  the 
most  of  it." 


THE  ORIGINAL  DRAFT  OF  THE  DECLARA- 
TION OF  INDEPENDENCE.  By  THOMAS  JEF- 
FERSON. 

WHEN  in  the  course  of  human  events  it  becomes 
necessary  for  one  people  to  dissolve  the  polit- 
ical bands  which  have  connected  them  with  another,  and 
to  assume  among  the  powers  of  the  earth  the  separate 
and  equal  station  to  which  the  laws  of  nature  and  of 
nature's  God  entitle  them,  a  decent  respect  to  the  opin- 
ions of  mankind  requires  that  they  should  declare  the 
causes  which  impel  them  to  the  separation. 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident:  that  all  men 
are  created  equal;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their 
creator  with  inherent  and  inalienable  rights;  that 
among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness; that  to  secure  these  rights,  governments  are 
instituted  among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers 
from  the  consent  of  the  governed ;  that  whenever  any 
form  of  government  becomes  destructive  of  these  ends, 
it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or  abolish  it,  and  to 
institute  new  government,  laying  its  foundation  on 
such  principles,  and  organizing  its  powers  in  such 
form,  as  to  them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their 
safety  and  happiness.  Prudence  indeed  will  dictate 
that  governments  long  established  should  not  be 
changed  for  light  and  transient  causes;  and  accord- 
ingly all  experience  hath  shown  that  mankind  are  more 
disposed  to  suffer  while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to 
right  themselves  by  abolishing  the  forms  to  which  they 
arc  accustomed.  But  when  a  long  train  of  abuses  and 
usurpations,  begun  at  a  distinguished  period  and  pur- 
suing invariably  the  same  object,  evinces  a  design  to 
reduce  them  under  absolute  despotism,  it  is  their  right, 

70 


By  THOMAS  JEFFERSON  71 

it  is  their  duty  to  throw  off  such  government,  and  to 
provide  new  guards  for  their  future  security.  Such 
has  been  the  patient  sufferance  of  these  colonies;  and 
such  is  now  the  necessity  which  constrains  them  to 
expunge  their  former  systems  of  government.  The 
history  of  the  present  king  of  Great  Britain  is  a  history 
of  unremitting  injuries  and  usurpations,  among  which 
appears  no  solitary  fact  to  contradict  the  uniform  tenor 
of  the  rest,  but  all  have  in  direct  object  the  establish- 
ment of  an  absolute  tyranny  over  these  states.  To 
prove  this  let  facts  be  submitted  to  a  candid  world,  for 
the  truth  of  which  we  pledge  a  faith  yet  unsullied  by 
falsehood. 

He  has  refused  his  assent  to  laws  the  most  whole- 
some and  necessary  for  the  public  good. 

He  has  forbidden  his  governors  to  pass  laws  of 
immediate  and  pressing  importance,  unless  suspended 
in  their  operation  till  his  assent  should  be  obtained; 
and  when  so  suspended,  he  has  utterly  neglected  to 
attend  to  them. 

He  has  refused  to  pass  other  laws  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  large  districts  of  people,  unless  those  people 
would  relinquish  the  right  of  representation  in  the 
legislature,  a  right  inestimable  to  them,  and  formi- 
dable to  tyrants  only. 

He  has  called  together  legislative  bodies  at  places 
unusual,  uncomfortable,  and  distant  from  the  deposi- 
tory of  their  public  records,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
fatiguing  them  into  compliance  with  his  measures. 

He  has  dissolved  Representative  houses  repeatedly 
and  continually  for  opposing  with  manly  firmness  his 
invasions  on  the  rights  of  the  people. 

He  has  refused  for  a  long  time  after  such  dissolu- 


72     The  DECLARATION  of  INDEPENDENCE 

tions  to  cause  others  to  be  elected,  whereby  the  legis- 
lative powers,  incapable  of  annihilation,  have  returned 
to  the  people  at  large  for  their  exercise,  the  state 
remaining  in  the  meantime  exposed  to  all  the  dangers 
of  invasion  from  without  and  convulsions  within. 

He  has  endeavored  to  prevent  the  population  of 
these  states;  for  that  purpose  obstructing  the  laws  for 
naturalization  of  foreigners,  refusing  to  pass  others  to 
encourage  their  migrations  hither,  and  raising  the 
conditions  of  new  appropriations  of  lands. 

Hd^has  suffered  the  administration  of  justice  totally 
to  cease  in  some  of  these  states,  refusing  his  assent  to 
laws  for  establishing  judiciary  powers. 

He  has  made  our  judges  dependent  on  his  will  alone 
for  the  tenure  of  their  oiBces,  and  the  amount  and 
payment  of  their  salaries. 

He  has  erected  a  multitude  of  new  offices  by  a  self- 
assumed  power,  and  sent  hither  swarms  of  new  officers 
to  harass  our  people  and  eat  out  their  substance. 

He  has  kept  among  us  in  times  of  peace  standing 
armies  and  ships  of  war  without  the  consent  of  our 
legislatures. 

He  has  affected  to  render  the  military  independent 
of,  and  superior  to  the  civil  power. 

He  has  combined  with  others  to  subject  us  to  a  juris- 
diction foreign  to  our  constitutions  and  unacknowl- 
edged by  our  laws,  giving  his  assent  to  their  acts  of 
pretended  legislation  for  quartering  large  bodies  of 
armed  troops  among  us;  for  protecting  them  by  a 
mock-trial  from  punishment  for  any  murders  which 
they  should  commit  on  the  inhabitants  of  these  states; 
for  cutting  off  our  trade  with  all  parts  of  the  world;  for 
imposing  taxes  on  us  without  our  consent;  for  depriv- 


By  THOMAS   JEFFERSON  73 

ing  us  of  the  benefits  of  trial  by  jury;  for  transporting 
us  beyond  seas  to  be  tried  for  pretended  offences;  for 
abolishing  the  free  system  of  English  laws  in  a  neigh- 
boring province,  establishing  there  an  arbitrary 
government,  and  enlarging  its  boundaries,  so  as  to 
render  it  at  once  an  example  and  fit  instrument  for 
introducing  the  same  absolute  rule  into  these  states;  for 
taking  away  our  charters,  abolishing  our  most  valu- 
able laws,  and  altering  fundamentally  the  forms  of  our 
governments;  for  suspending  our  own  legislatures,  and 
declaring  them  invested  with  power  to  legislate  for  us 
in  all  cases  whatsoever. 

He  has  abdicated  government  here,  withdrawing  his 
governors,  and  declaring  us  out  of  his  allegiance  and 
protection. 

He  has  plundered  our  seas,  ravaged  our  coasts,  burnt 
our  towns,  and  destroyed  the  lives  of  our  people. 

He  is  at  this  time  transporting  large  armies  of  for- 
eign mercenaries  to  complete  the  works  of  death,  deso- 
lation, and  tyranny  already  begun  with  circumstances 
of  cruelty  and  perfidy  unworthy  of  the  head  of  a 
civilized  nation. 

He  has  constrained  our  fellow  citizens  taken  captive 
on  the  high  seas  to  bear  arms  against  their  country,  to 
become  the  excutioners  of  their  friends  and  brethren, 
or  to  fall  themselves  by  their  hands. 

He  has  endeavored  to  bring  on  the  inhabitants  of 
our  frontiei's,  the  merciless  Indian  savages,  whose 
known  rule  of  warfare  is  an  undistinguished  destruc- 
tion of  all  ages,  sexes,  and  conditions  of  existence. 

He  has  incited  treasonable  insurrection  of  our  fellow 
citizens,  with  the  allurements  of  forfeiture  and  confisca- 
tion of  our  property. 


74     The  DECLARATION  of  INDEPENDENCE 

He  has  waged  cruel  war  against  human  nature  itself, 
violating  its  most  sacred  rights  of  life  and  liberty  in 
the  persons  of  a  distant  people  who  never  offended 
him,  captivating  and  carrying  them  into  slavery  in 
another  hemisphere,  or  to  incur  miserable  death  in 
their  transportation  thither.  This  piratical  warfare, 
the  opprobrium  of  INFIDEL  powers,  is  the  warfare  of 
the  CHRISTIAN  King  of  Great  Britain.  Determined 
to  keep  open  a  market  where  MEN  should  be  bought 
and  sold,  he  has  prostituted  his  negative  for  suppress- 
ing every  legislative  attempt  to  prohibit  or  to  restrain 
this  execrable  commerce.  And  that  this  assemblage  of 
horrors  might  want  no  fact  of  distinguished  die,  he  is 
now  exciting  those  very  people  to  rise  in  arms  among 
us,  and  to  purchase  that  liberty  of  which  he  has 
deprived  them,  by  murdering  the  people  on  whom  he 
also  obtruded  them:  thus  paying  off  former  crimes 
committed  against  the  LIBERTIES  of  one  people, 
with  crimes  which  he  urges  them  to  commit  against 
the  LIVES  of  another. 

In  every  stage  of  these  oppressions  we  have  peti- 
tioned for  redress  in  the  most  humble  terms:  our 
repeated  petitions  have  been  answered  only  by  repeated 
injuries. 

A  prince  whose  character  is  thus  marked  by  every 
act  which  may  define  a  tyrant  is  unfit  to  be  the  ruler 
of  a  people  who  mean  to  be  free.  Future  ages  will 
scarcely  believe  that  the  hardiness  of  one  man  adven- 
tured, within  the  short  compass  of  twelve  years  only, 
to  lay  a  foundation  so  broad  and  so  undisguised  for 
tyranny  over  a  people  fostered  and  fixed  in  principles 
of  freedom. 

Nor  have  we  been   wanting  in  attentions   to   our 


By  THOMAS   JEFFERSON  75 

British  brethren.  We  have  warned  them  from  time  to 
time  of  attempts  by  their  legislature  to  extend  a  juris- 
diction over  these  our  states.  We  have  reminded  them 
of  the  circumstances  of  our  emigration  and  settlement 
here,  no  one  of  which  could  warrant  so  strange  a  pre- 
tension :  that  these  were  effected  at  the  expense  of  our 
own  blood  and  treasure,  unassisted  by  the  wealth  or 
the  strength  of  Great  Britain:  that  in  constituting 
indeed  our  several  forms  of  government,  we  had 
adopted  one  common  king,  thereby  laying  a  foundation 
for  perpetual  league  and  amity  with  them :  but  that 
submission  to  their  parliament  was  no  part  of  our  con- 
stitution, nor  ever  in  idea,  if  history  may  be  credited: 
and  we  appealed  to  their  native  justice  and  mag- 
nanimity as  well  as  to  the  ties  of  our  common  kindred 
to  disavow  these  usurpations  which  were  likely  to 
interrupt  our  connection  and  correspondence.  They 
too  have  been  deaf  to  the  voice  of  justice  and  of  con- 
sanguinity, and  when  occasions  have  been  given  them, 
by  the  regular  course  of  their  laws,  of  removing  from 
their  councils  the  disturbers  of  our  harmony,  they 
have,  by  their  free  election,  re-established  them  in 
power.  At  this  very  time  too,  they  are  permitting  their 
chief  magistrates  to  send  over  not  only  soldiers  of  our 
common  blood,  but  Scotch  and  foreign  mercenaries  to 
invade  and  destroy  us.  These  facts  have  given  the  last 
stab  to  agonizing  affection,  and  manly  spirit  bids  us  to 
renounce  forever  these  unfeeling  brethren.  We  must 
endeavor  to  forget  our  former  love  for  them,  and  hold 
them  as  we  hold  the  rest  of  mankind,  enemies  in  war, 
in  peace  friends.  We  might  have  been  a  free  and 
a  great  people  together;  but  a  communication  of 
grandeur  and  of    freedom,   it  seems,   is  below    their 


76     The  DECLARATION  of  INDEPENDENCE 

dignity.  Be  it  so,  since  they  will  have  it.  The  road 
to  happiness  and  to  glory  is  open  to  us  too.  We  will 
tread  it  apart  from  them,  and  acquiesce  in  the  neces- 
sity which  denounces  our  eternal  separation! 

We,  therefore,  the  representatives  of  the  United 
States  of  America  in  General  Congress  assembled,  do, 
in  the  name,  and  by  authority  of  the  good  people 
of  these  states,  reject  and  renounce  all  allegiance  and 
subjection  to  the  kings  of  Great  Britain  and  all  others 
who  may  hereafter  claim  by,  through  or  under  them ; 
we  utterly  dissolve  all  political  connection  which  may 
heretofore  have  subsisted  between  us  and  the  people  or 
parliament  of  Great  Britain ;  and  finally  we  do  assert 
and  declare  these  colonies  to  be  free  and  independent 
states,  and  that  as  free  and  independent  states,  they 
have  full  power  to  levy  war,  conclude  peace,  contract 
alliances,  establish  commerce,  and  to  do  all  other  acts 
and  things  which  independent  states  may  of  right  do. 

And  for  the  support  of  this  declaration,  we  mutually 
pledge  to  each  other  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our 
sacred  honor. 


GENIUS    AND    COMMON    SENSE.     From  "Table 
Talk."     By  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

WE  hear  it  maintained  by  people  of  more  gravity 
than  understanding,  that  genius  and  taste  are 
strictly  reducible  to  rules,  and  that  there  is  a  rule  for 
everything.  So  far  is  it  from  being  true  that  the 
finest  breath  of  fancy  is  a  definable  thing,  that  the 
plainest  common  sense  is  only  what  Mr.  Locke  would 
have  called  a  mixed  mode,  subject  to  a  particular  sort 
of  acquired  and  undefinable  tact.  It  is  asked,  "If  you 
do  not  know  the  rule  by  which  a  thing  is  done,  how 
can  you  be  sure  of  doing  it  a  second  time?"  And  the 
answer  is,  "If  you  do  not  know  the  muscles  by  the  help 
of  which  you  walk,  how  is  it  you  do  not  fall  down  at 
every  step  you  take?"  In  art,  in  taste,  in  life,  in 
speech,  you  decide  from  feeling,  and  not  from  reason ; 
that  is,  from  the  impression  of  a  number  of  things  on 
the  mind,  which  impression  is  true  and  well-founded, 
though  you  may  not  be  able  to  analyse  or  account  for 
it  in  the  several  particulars.  In  a  gesture  you  use,  in 
a  look  you  see,  in  a  tone  you  hear,  you  judge  of  the 
expression,  propriety,  and  meaning  from  habit,  not 
from  reason  or  rules;  that  is  to  say,  from  innumerable 
instances  of  like  gestures,  looks,  and  tones,  in 
innumerable  other  circumstances,  variously  modified, 
which  are  too  many  and  too  refined  to  be  all  distinctly 
recollected,  but  which  do  not  therefore  operate  the 
less  powerfully  upon  the  mind  and  eye  of  taste.  Shall 
we  say  that  these  impressions  (the  immediate  stamp  of 
nature)  do  not  operate  in  a  given  manner  till  they  are 
classified  and  reduced  to  rules,  or  is  not  the  rule  itself 
grounded  upon  the  truth  and  certainty  of  that  natural 
operation?      How,    then,    can    the    distinction    of    the 

77 


78  GENIUS  and  COMMON   SENSE 

understanding  as  to  the  manner  in  which  they  operate 
be  necessary  to  their  producing  their  due  and  uniform 
effect  upon  the  mind?  If  certain  effects  did  not 
regularly  arise  out  of  certain  causes  in  mind  as  well  as 
matter,  there  could  be  no  rule  given  for  them :  nature 
does  not  follow  the  rule,  but  suggests  it.  Reason  is 
the  interpreter  and  critic  of  nature  and  genius,  not 
their  lawgiver  and  judge.  He  must  be  a  poor  creature 
indeed  whose  practical  convictions  do  not  in  almost  all 
cases  outrun  his  deliberate  understanding,  or  who  does 
not  feel  and  know  much  more  than  he  can  give  a  reason 
for. — Hence  the  distinction  between  eloquence  and 
wisdom,  between  ingenuity  and  common  sense.  A 
man  may  be  dextrous  and  able  in  explaining  grounds 
of  his  opinions,  and  yet  may  be  a  mere  sophist,  because 
he  only  sees  one  half  of  a  subject.  Another  may  feel 
the  whole  weight  of  a  question,  nothing  relating  to  it 
may  be  lost  upon  him,  and  yet  he  may  be  able  to  give 
no  account  of  the  manner  in  which  it  affects  him,  or  to 
drag  his  reasons  from  their  silent  lurking-places. 
This  last  will  be  a  wise  man,  though  neither  a  logician 
nor  rhetorician.  Goldsmith  was  a  fool  to  Dr.  Johnson 
in  argument ;  that  is,  in  assigning  the  specific  grounds 
of  his  opinions:  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  fool  to  Goldsmith 
in  the  fine  tact,  the  airy,  intuitive  faculty  with  which 
he  skimmed  the  surfaces  of  things,  and  unconsciously 
formed  his  opinions.  Common  sense  is  the  just  result 
of  the  sum-total  of  such  unconscious  impressions  in 
the  ordinary  occurrences  of  life,  as  they  are  treasured 
up  in  the  memory,  and  called  out  by  the  occasion. 
Genius  and  taste  depend  much  upon  the  same  principle 
exercised  on  loftier  ground  and  in  more  unusual  com- 
binations. 


Orations 


ORATIONS 

"  There  is  no  true  eloquence,  unless  there  is  a  man  behind 
the  speech." — Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


Monstrous  Relations  in  Newspapers  .  Fisher  Ames  .     .     . 

Memorial  Day /ohn  D.  Long    .     . 

General  Amnesty Carl  Schurz  .     .     . 

The  Enforcement  of  the  Liquor  Law    JVendell  Phillips  . 

The  Sepulcher  in  the  Garden     .     .     .  Henry  Ward  Beecher    90 

103 
106 


PAGE 

83 
87 

94 


The  Use  and  Abuse  of  Property  .      .    Theodore  Roosevelt 
The  Impeachment  of  Mr.  Hastings   .  Edmund  Burke 
The  Impeachment  of  Mr.  Hastings  .  Richard  B.    Sheridan  1 10 
The  New  South  (3  Extracts)     .     .     .  Henry  IV.  Grady  .     .   115 

Abraham  Lincoln Emilio  Caste  I  ar     .     .125 

After-Dinner  Speech Sir  H.  Lytton  Bulzver  127 

Moral  Force  of  Public  Opinion      .     .  Daniel  Webster.    .     .131 
The  Independent  Spirit  of  the  Puri- 
tans       Henry  Cabot  Lodge    ..133 

Copyright Lord  Macaulay     .     .   138 

American  Courage Sherman  Hoar  .     .     .144 

The  Central  American  Treaty  .  .  .  William  H.  Seward  .  148 
A  Monument  to  Shakspere  ....  Victor  Hugo  .  .  .151 
The  Spanish-American  War  .  .  .  /ohn  P.  Chidwick  .  .155 
The  Consolations  of  Literature    .     .  Rufus  Choate    .     .     .158 

The  Force  Bill Johti  C.  Calhoun    .     .161 

South  Carolina  and  Massachusetts  .  Daniel  Webster  .  .  164. 
At  the  Unveiling  of  the  Gray  Memorial  James  Russell  Lowell  167 

The  Monroe  Doctrine Lewis  Cass    .     .     .     .170 

My  Religion Coient  Leo  Tolstoi  .     .174 

War Charles  Sumner     .     .   179 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly Elmer  Hewitt  Capen  182 

The  American  Scholar RalphWaldo  Emerson  186 

Jewish  Disabilities Lord  Macaulay     ,    ,  189 

81 


82  ORATIONS 

PAGE 

Justice  for  DreyfilS Einile  Zola    .     .     .     .193 

Address  to  the  Assembly  of  Noblesse    Comte  de  Mirabeau    .   197 
The  Repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act        .     .  Jo?iatha7t  May  hew      .  199 

The  Secret  of  Murder Darnel  Webster     .     .  202 

The  Old  Grudge  Against  England    .  Rufus  Choate     .     .     .  204 
At  the   Unveiling  of  the   Statue  of 

Rufus  Choate Joseph  H.  Choate  .     .  206 

Funeral  Oration  by  the  Dead  Body  of 

Hamilton Gouverneur  Morris  .  211 

The  Men  and  Deeds  of  the  Revolution  jE'rt'wflr^  ^2/^r^/'/    .     .  214 
Valedictorj'  Address  to  The  Senate   .  Henry  Clay    ....  217 

Ulysses  S.  Grant Thoinas  IV.  Higginson  221 

Address  Before  the   New  York  His- 
torical Society Da7iiel  Webster     .     .  226 

The  Leadership  of  Educated  Men    .  George  Wm.  Curtis  .  228 

The  Better  Part Booker  T.  Washington  232 

Corn  Laws Lord  Macaulay      .     .  236 

The  Ideal  Lawyer /ohn   W.  Griggs    .     .  239 

Napoleon  the  Little Victor  Hugo      .     .     .242 

The  Cumberland  Road Thomas  Corwin     .     .  246 

Russia  the  Antagonist  of  the  United 

States Louis  Kossuth    .     .     .  249 

Edwin  Booth Parke  Godwin  .     .     .255 

International  Arbitration      ....  fames  Russell  Lowell  259 

The  Truth  of  the  Gospel Alexander  McKenzie  262 

After-Dinner  Speech  at  Harvard  Club 

of  New  York Henry  E.  Howland   .  266 

Secret  Executions Victor  Hugo      .     .     .271 

The  Duties  of  Christianity    ....  Louis  Kossuth    .     .     .275 
The  Necessity  of  Outside  Agitation  .    Wendell  Phillips  .     .  279 
Washington's  Inauguration  ....   Chauncey  M.  Depew  .  282 
Address  at  The  Harvard  Alumni  Din- 
ner   Booker  T.  Washington  286 

Bulgarian  Horrors William  E.  Gladstone  289 

Second  Inaugural  Address   ....  Abraham  Lincoln  ,    .  294 


MONSTROUS    RELATIONS    IN    NEWSPAPERS. 
By  FISHER  AMES. 

IT  seems  as  if  newspaper  wares  were  made  to  suit  a 
market,  as  much  as  any  other.  The  starers,  and 
wonderers,  and  gapers,  engross  a  very  large  share  of 
the  attention  of  all  the  sons  of  the  type.  Extraor- 
dinary events  multiply  upon  us  surprisingly.  Gazettes, 
it  is  seriously  to  be  feared,  will  not  long  allow  room  to 
anything  that  is  not  loathsome  or  shocking.  A  news- 
paper is  pronounced  to  be  very  lean  and  destitute  of 
matter,  if  it  contains  no  accounts  of  murders,  suicides, 
prodigies,  or  monstrous  births. 

Some  of  these  tales  excite  horror,  and  others  disgust; 
yet  the  fashion  reigns,  like  a  tyrant,  to  relish  wonders, 
and  almost  to  relish  nothing  else.  Is  this  a  reasonable 
taste?  Is  the  History  of  Newgate  the  only  one  worth 
reading?  Are  oddities  only  to  be  hunted?  Pray  tell 
us,  men  of  ink,  if  our  presses  are  to  diffuse  informa- 
tion, and  we,  the  poor  ignorant  people,  can  get  it  in  no 
other  way  than  by  newspapers,  what  knowledge  are  we 
to  glean  from  the  blundering  lies,  or  the  tiresome 
truths  about  thunder-storms,  that,  strange  to  tell !  kill 
oxen,  or  burn  barns;  and  cats,  that  bring  two-headed 
kittens;  and  sows,  that  eat  their  own  pigs?  The  crow- 
ing of  a  hen  is  supposed  to  forebode  cuckledom ;  and 
the  tickling  of  a  little  bug  in  the  wall  threatens  yellow 
fever.  It  seems  really  as  if  our  newspapers  were  busy 
to  spread  superstition.  Omens,  and  dreams,  and 
prodigies  are  recorded,  as  if  they  were  worth  mind- 
ing. One  would  think  our  gazettes  were  intended  for 
Roman  readers,  who  were  silly  enough  to  make  account 
of  such  things. 

Surely,  extraordinary  events  have  not  the  best  title 

83 


84  RELATIONS   in   NEWSPAPERS 

to  our  studious  attention.  To  study  nature  or  man,  we 
v^ught  to  know  things  that  are  in  the  ordinary  course, 
not  the  unaccountable  things  that  happen  out  of  it 

This  country  is  said  to  measure  seven  hundred  mil- 
lions of  acres,  and  is  inhabited  by  almost  six  millions 
of  people.  Who  can  doubt,  then,  that  a  great  many 
crimes  will  be  committed,  and  a  great  many  strange 
things  will  happen  every  seven  years?  There  will  be 
thunder  showers,  that  will  split  tough  white  oak 
trees ;  and  hail  storms,  that  will  cost  some  farmers  the 
full  amount  of  twenty  shillings  to  mend  their  glass 
windows;  there  will  be  taverns,  and  boxing  matches, 
and  elections,  and  gouging  and  drinking,  and  love  and 
murder,  and  running  in  debt,  and  running  away,  and 
suicide.  Now,  if  a  man  supposes  eight,  or  ten,  or 
twenty  dozen  of  these  amusing  events  will  happen  in 
a  single  year,  is  he  not  just  as  wise  as  another  man, 
who  reads  fifty  columns  of  amazing  particulars,  and, 
of  course,  knows  that  they  have  happened? 

This  state  has  almost  one  hundred  thousand  dwell- 
ing houses ;  it  would  be  strange  if  all  of  them  should 
escape  fire  for  twelve  months.  Yet  is  it  very  profit- 
able for  a  man  to  become  a  deep  student  of  all  the 
accidents  by  which  they  are  consumed?  He  should 
take  good  care  of  his  chimney-corner,  and  put  a  fender 
before  the  back -log,  before  he  goes  to  bed.  Having 
done  this,  he  may  let  his  aunt  or  grandmother  read  by 
day,  or  meditate  by  night,  the  terrible  newspaper 
articles  of  fires ;  how  a  maid  dropped  asleep  rearling  a 
romance,  and  the  bed  clothes  took  fire;  how  a  boy 
searching  in  a  garret  for  a  hoard  of  nuts,  kindled  some 
flax;  and  how  a  mouse,  warming  his  tail,  caught  it  on 
fire,  and  carried  it  into  his  hole  in  the  floor. 


By  FISHER   AMES  85 

Some  of  the  shocking  articles  in  the  papers  raise 
simple,  and  very  simple,  wonder;  some  terror;  and 
some  horror  and  disgust.  Now  what  instruction  is 
there  in  these  endless  wonders?  Who  is  the  wiser  or 
happier  for  reading  the  accounts  of  them?  On  the 
contrary,  do  they  not  shock  tender  minds,  and  addle 
shallow  brains?  They  make  a  thousand  old  maids,  and 
eight  or  ten  thousand  booby  boys,  afraid  to  go  to  bed 
alone.  Worse  than  this  happens;  for  some  eccentric 
minds  are  turned  to  mischief  by  such  accounts  as  they 
receive  of  troops  of  incendiaries  burning  our  cities: 
the  spirit  of  imitation  is  contagious;  and  boys  are 
found  unaccountably  bent  to  do  as  men  do.  When  the 
man  flew  from  the  steeple  of  the  North  Church  fifty 
years  ago,  every  imlucky  boy  thought  of  nothing  but 
flying  from  a  sign-post. 

Every  horrid  story  in  a  newspaper  produces  a  shock; 
but,  after  some  time,  this  shock  lessens.  At  length, 
such  stories  are  so  far  from  giving  pain,  that  they 
rather  raise  curiosity,  and  we  desire  nothing  so  much 
as  the  particulars  of  terrible  tragedies.  The  wonder  is 
as  easy  as  to  stare ;  and  the  most  vacant  mind  is  the 
most  in  need  of  such  resources  as  cost  no  trouble  of 
scrutiny  or  reflection ;  it  is  a  sort  of  food  for  idle  curi- 
osity that  is  readily  chewed  and  digested. 

On  the  whole,  we  may  insist  that  the  increasing 
fashion  for  printing  wonderful  tales  of  crimes  and  acci- 
dents is  worse  than  ridiculous,  as  it  corrupts  both  the 
public  taste  and  morals.  It  multiplies  fables,  prodi- 
gious monsters,  and  crimes,  and  thus  makes  shocking 
things  familiar;  while  it  withdraws  all  popular  atten- 
tion from  familiar  truth,  because  it  is  not  shocking. 

Now,  Messrs.  Printers,  I  pray  the  whole  honourable 


86  RELATIONS   in   NEWSPAPERS 

craft  to  banish  as  many  murders,  and  horrid  accidents, 
and  monstrous  births  and  prodigies  from  their 
gazettes,  as  their  readers  will  permit  them;  and,  by- 
degrees,  to  coax  them  back  to  contemplate  life  and 
manners;  to  consider  common  events  with  some  com- 
mon sense;  and  to  study  nature  where  she  can  be 
known,  rather  than  in  those  of  her  ways  where  she 
really  is,  or  is  represented  to  be,  inexplicable. 

Strange  events  are  facts,  and  as  such  should  be  men- 
tioned, but  with  brevity  and  in  a  cursory  manner. 
They  afford  no  ground  for  popular  reasoning  or  instruc- 
tion ;  and,  therefore,  the  horrid  details  that  make  each 
particular  hair  stiffen  and  stand  upright  in  the  reader's 
head  ought  not  to  be  given.  In  short,  they  must  be 
mentioned ;  but  sensible  printers  and  sensible  readers 
will  think  that  way  of  mentioning  them  the  best  that 
impresses  them  least  on  the  public  attention,  and  that 
hurries  them  on  the  most  swiftly  to  be  forgotten. 


MEMORIAL  DAY.  From  "After  Dinner  and  Other 
Speeches."  Copyright,  1895,  by  John  D.  Long. 
Reprinted  with  permission.     By  JOHN  D.  LONG. 

I  GRATEFULLY  acknowledge  your  courtesy,  vet- 
erans and  members  of  the  Suffolk  posts  of  the 
Grand  Army,  in  inviting  me,  a  civilian,  to  speak  for 
you  this  day.  I  should  shrink  from  the  task,  however, 
did  I  not  know  that,  in  this,  your  purpose  is  to  honor 
again  the  Commonwealth  of  which  I  am  the  official 
representative.  By  recent  enactment  she  has  made 
the  day  you  celebrate  one  of  her  holy  days, — a  day 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  her  patriot  dead  and  to  the 
inspiration  of  patriotism  in  her  living.  Henceforward, 
she  emblazons  it  upon  the  calendar  of  the  year  with  the 
consecrated  days  that  have  come  down  from  the  Pil- 
grim and  the  Puritan,  with  Christmas  Day  and  with  the 
birthdays  of  Washington  and  American  Independence. 
Memorial  Day  will  hereafter  gather  around  it  not  only 
the  love  and  tears  and  pride  of  the  generations  of  the 
people,  but  more  and  more,  in  its  inner  circle  of 
tenderness,  the  linking  memories  of  every  comrade,  so 
long  as  one  survives.  As  the  dawn  ushers  it  in, 
tinged  already  with  the  exquisite  flush  of  hastening 
June,  and  sweet  with  the  bursting  fragrance  of  her 
roses,  the  wheels  of  time  will  each  year  roll  back,  and 
lo!  John  Andrew  is  at  the  state  house,  inspiring 
Massachusetts  with  the  throbbing  of  his  own  great 
heart;  Abraham  Lincoln,  wise  and  patient  and 
honest  and  tender  and  true,  is  at  the  nation's  helm; 
the  North  is  one  broad  blaze;  the  boys  in  blue  are 
marching  to  the  front;  the  fife  and  drum  are  on  every 
breeze;  the  very  air  is  patriotism ;  Phil  Sheridan,  forty 
miles  away,   dashes  back  to  turn  defeat  to   victory; 

87 


88  MEMORIAL    DAY 

Farragut,  lashed  to  the  mast-head,  is  steaming  into 
Mobile  Harbor;  Hooker  is  above  the  clouds, — ay,  now 
indeed  forever  above  the  clouds;  Sherman  marches 
through  Georgia  to  the  sea;  Grant  has  throttled  Lee 
with  the  grip  that  never  lets  go;  Richmond  falls;  the 
armies  of  the  republic  pass  in  that  last  great  review  at 
Washington;  Custer's  plume  is  there,  but  Kearney's 
saddle  is  empty ;  and,  now  again,  our  veterans  come 
marching  home  to  receive  the  welcome  of  a  grateful 
people,  and  to  stack  in  Doric  Hall  the  tattered  flag 
which  Massachusetts  forever  hence  shall  wear  above 
her  heart. 

In  memory  of  the  dead,  in  honor  of  the  living,  for 
inspiration  to  our  children,  we  gather  to-day  to  deck 
the  graves  of  our  patriots  with  flowers,  to  pledge  com- 
monwealth and  town  and  citizen  to  fresh  recognition 
of  the  surviving  soldier,  and  to  picture  yet  again  the 
romance,  the  reality,  the  glory,  the  sacrifice  of  his 
service.  As  if  it  were  but  yesterday,  you  recall  him. 
He  had  but  turned  twenty.  The  exquisite  tint  of 
youthful  health  was  in  his  cheek.  His  pure  heart 
shone  from  frank,  outspeaking  eyes.  His  fair  hair 
clustered  from  beneath  his  cap.  He  had  pulled  a 
stout  oar  in  the  college  race,  or  walked  the  most  grace- 
ful athlete  on  the  village  green.  He  had  just  entered 
on  the  vocation  of  his  life.  The  doorway  of  his  home 
at  this  season  of  the  year  was  brilliant  in  the  dewy 
morn  with  the  clambering  vine  and  fragrant  flower,  as 
in  and  out  he  went,  the  beloved  of  mother  and  sisters, 
and  the  ideal  of  a  New  England  youth : 

"In  face  and  shoulders  like  a  god  he  was  ; 
For  o'er  him  had  the  goddess  breathed  the  charm 
Of  youthful  locks,  the  ruddy  glow  of  youth, 


By  JOHN  D.   LONG  89 

A  generous  gladness  in  his  eyes:  su'^h  grace 
As  carver's  hand  to  ivory  gives,  or  when 
Silver  or  Parian  stone  in  yellow  gold 
Is  set." 

And  when  the  drum  beat,  when  the  first  martyr's 
blood  sprinkled  the  stones  of  Baltimore,  he  took  his 
place  in  the  ranks  and  went  forward.  You  remember 
his  ingenuous  and  glowing  letters  to  his  mother, 
written  as  if  his  pen  were  dipped  in  his  very  heart. 
How  novel  seemed  to  him  the  routine  of  service,  the 
life  of  camp  and  march!  How  eager  the  wish  to  meet 
the  enemy  and  strike  his  first  blow  for  the  good  cause ! 
What  pride  at  the  promotion  that  came  and  put  its 
chevron  on  his  arm  or  its  strap  upon  his  shoulder! 

They  took  him  prisoner.  He  wasted  in  Libby  and 
grew  gaunt  and  haggard  with  the  horror  of  his  suffer- 
ings and  with  pity  for  the  greater  horror  of  the 
sufferings  of  his  comrades  who  fainted  and  died  at  his 
side.  He  tunneled  the  earth  and  escaped.  Hungry 
and  weak,  in  terror  of  recapture,  he  followed  by  night 
the  pathway  of  the  railroad.  He  slept  in  thickets  and 
sank  in  swamps.  He  saw  the  glitter  of  horsemen  who 
pursued  him.  He  knew  the  bloodhound  was  on  his 
track.  He  reached  the  line;  and,  with  his  hand 
grasping  at  freedom,  they  caught  and  took  him  back  to 
his  captivity.  He  was  exchanged  at  last;  and  you 
remember,  when  he  came  home  on  a  short  furlough, 
how  manly  and  war-worn  he  had  grown.  But  he  soon 
returned  to  the  ranks  and  to  the  welcome  of  his  com- 
rades. They  recall  him  now  alike  with  tears  and 
pride.  In  the  rifle-pits  around  Petersburg  you  heard 
his  steady  voice  and  firm  command.  Some  one  who 
saw  him  then  fancied  that  he  seemed  that  day  like  one 


9©  MEMORIAL    DAY 

who  forefelt  the  end.  But  there  was  no  flinching  as  he 
charged.  He  had  just  turned  to  give  a  cheer  when  the 
fatal  ball  struck  him.  There  was  a  convulsion  of  the 
upward  hand.  His  eyes,  pleading  and  lo}^al,  turned 
their  last  glance  to  the  flag.  His  lips  parted.  He  fell 
dead,  and  at  nightfall  lay  with  his  face  to  the  stars. 
Home  they  brought  him,  fairer  than  Adonis  over 
whom  the  goddess  of  beauty  wept.  They  buried  him 
in  the  village  churchyard  under  the  green  turf.  Year 
by  year  his  comrades  and  his  kin,  nearer  than  com- 
rades, scatter  his  grave  with  flowers.  Do  you  ask  who 
he  was?  He  was  in  every  regiment  and  every  com- 
pany. He  went  out  from  every  Massachusetts  village. 
He  sleeps  in  every  Massachusetts  burying-ground. 
Recall  romance,  recite  the  names  of  heroes  of  legend 
and  song,  but  there  is  none  that  is  his  peer. 


GENERAL  AMNESTY.     By  CARL  vSCHURZ. 

SIR,  I  have  to  say  a  few  words  about  an  accusation 
which  has  been  brought  against  those  who  speak 
in  favor  of  universal  amnesty.  It  is  the  accusation 
resorted  to,  in  default  of  more  solid  argument,  that 
those  who  advise  amnesty,  especially  imiversal 
amnesty,  do  so  because  they  have  fallen  in  love  with 
the  rebels.  No,  sir,  it  is  not  merely  for  the  rebels  I 
plead.  We  are  asked,  Shall  the  Rebellion  go  entirely 
unpunished?  No,  sir,  it  shall  not.  Neither  do  I  think 
that  the  Rebellion  has  gone  entirely  unpunished.  I 
ask  you,  had  the  rebels  nothing  to  lose  but  their  lives 
and  their  offices?  Look  at  it.  There  was  a  proud  and 
arrogant  aristocracy,  planting  their  feet  on  the  necks 
of  the  laboring  people,  and  pretending  to  be  the  born 
rulers  of  this  great  republic.  They  looked  down,  not 
only  upon  their  slaves,  but  also  upon  the  people  of  the 
North,  with  the  haughty  contempt  of  self-asserting 
superiority.  When  their  pretensions  to  rule  us  all 
were  first  successfully  disputed,  they  resolved  to 
destroy  this  republic,  and  to  build  up  on  the  corner- 
stone of  slavery  an  empire  of  their  own  in  which  they 
could  hold  absolute  sway.  They  made  the  attempt 
with  the  most  overweeningly  confident  expectation  of 
certain  victory.  Then  came  the  Civil  War,  and  after 
four  years  of  struggle  their  whole  power  and  pride  lay 
shivered  to  atoms  at  our  feet,  their  sons  dead  by  tens 
of  thousands  on  the  battle-fields  of  this  country,  their 
fields  and  their  homes  devastated,  their  fortunes 
destroyed;  and  more  than  that,  the  whole  social 
system  in  which  they  had  their  being,  with  all  their 
hopes  and  pride,  utterly  wiped  out;  slavery  forever 
abolished,  and  the  slaves  themselves  created  a  political 

91 


92  GENERAL   AMNESTY 

power  before  which  they  had  to  bow  their  heads,  and 
they,  broken,  ruined,  helpless,  and  hopeless  in  the  dust 
before  those  upon  whom  they  had  so  haughtily  looked 
down  as  their  vassals  and  inferiors.  Sir,  can  it  be  said 
that  the  Rebellion  has  gone  entirely  unpunished? 

You  may  object  that  the  loyal  people,  too,  were  sub- 
jected to  terrible  sufferings ;  that  their  sons,  too,  were 
slaughtered  by  tens  of  thousands;  that  the  mourning 
of  countless  widows  and  orphans  is  still  darkening  our 
land;  that  we  are  groaning  under  terrible  burdens 
which  the  Rebellion  has  loaded  upon  us,  and  that 
therefore  part  of  the  punishment  has  fallen  upon  the 
innocent.     And  it  is  certainly  true. 

But  look  at  the  difference.  We  issued  from  this 
great  conflict  as  conquerors;  upon  the  graves  of  our 
slain  we  could  lay  the  wreath  of  victory;  our  widows 
and  orphans,  while  mourning  the  loss  of  their  dearest, 
still  remember  with  proud  exultation  that  the  blood  of 
their  husbands  and  fathers  was  not  spilled  in  vain; 
that  it  flowed  for  the  greatest  and  holiest  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  victorious  of  causes;  and  when  our 
people  labor  in  the  sweat  of  their  brow  to  pay  the 
debt  which  the  Rebellion  has  loaded  upon  us,  they  do 
it  with  the  proud  consciousness  that  the  heavy  price 
they  have  paid  is  infinitely  overbalanced  by  the  value 
of  the  results  they  have  gained:  slavery  abolished;  the 
great  American  Republic  purified  of  her  foulest  stain ; 
the  American  people  no  longer  a  people  of  masters  and 
slaves,  but  a  people  of  equal  citizens;  the  most  danger- 
ous element  of  disturbance  and  disintegration  wiped 
out  from  among  us ;  this  country  put  upon  the  course 
of  harmonious  development,  greater,  more  beautiful, 
mightier  than  ever  in  its  self-conscious  power.     And 


By  CARL  SCHURZ  93 

thus,  whatever  losses,  whatever  sacrifices,  whatever 
sufferings  we  may  have  endured,  they  appear  before  us 
in  a  blaze  of  glory. 

But  how  do  the  Southern  people  stand  there?  All 
they  have  sacrificed,  all  the}^  have  lost,  all  the  blood 
they  have  spilled,  all  the  desolation  of  their  homes,  all 
the  distress  that  stares  them  in  the  face,  all  the  wreck 
and  ruin  they  see  around  them — all  for  nothing,  all  for 
a  wicked  folly,  all  for  a  disastrous  infatuation ;  the  very 
graves  of  their  slain  nothing  but  monuments  of  a 
shadowy  delusion ;  all  their  former  hopes  vanished 
forever;  and  the  very  magniloquence  which  some  of 
their  leaders  are  still  indulging  in,  nothing  but  a  mock- 
ing illustration  of  their  utter  discomfiture!  Ah,  sir,  if 
ever  human  efforts  broke  down  in  irretrievable 
disaster,  if  ever  human  pride  was  humiliated  to  the 
dust,  if  ever  human  hopes  were  turned  into  despair, 
there  you  behold  them. 


THE  ENFORCEMENT  OF  THE  LIQUOR  LAW. 
Copyright,  Lee  &  Shepard.  Reprinted  with  permis- 
sion.    By  WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

SOME  men  look  upon  this  temperance  cause  as 
whining  bigotry,  narrow  asceticism,  or  a  vulgar 
sentimentality,  fit  for  little  minds,  weak  women,  and 
weaker  men.  On  the  contrary,  I  regard  it  as  second 
only  to  one  or  two  others  of  the  primary  reforms  of 
this  age,  and  for  this  reason.  Every  race  has  its 
peculiar  temptation;  every  clime  has  its  specific  sin. 
The  tropics  and  tropical  races  are  tempted  to  one  form 
of  sensuality;  the  colder  and  temperate  regions,  and 
our  Saxon  blood,  find  their  peculiar  temptation  in  the 
stimulus  of  drink  and  food.  In  old  times  our  heaven 
was  a  drunken  revel.  We  relieve  ourselves  from  the 
over-weariness  of  constant  and  exhausting  toil  by 
intoxication.  Science  has  brought  a  cheap  means  of 
drunkenness  within  the  reach  of  every  individual. 
National  prosperity  and  free  institutions  have  put  into 
the  hands  of  almost  every  workman  the  means  of  being 
drunk  for  a  week  on  the  labor  of  two  or  three  hours. 
With  that  blood  and  that  temptation,  we  have  adopted 
democratic  institutions,  where  the  law  has  no  sanction 
but  the  purpose  and  virtue  of  the  masses.  The  statute- 
book  rests  not  on  bayonets,  as  in  Europe,  but  on  the 
hearts  of  the  people.  A  drunken  people  can  never  be 
the  basis  of  a  free  government.  It  is  the  corner-stone 
neither  of  virtue,  prosperity,  nor  progress.  To  us, 
therefore,  the  title-deeds  of  whose  estates  and  the 
safety  of  whose  lives  depend  upon  the  tranquillity  of 
the  streets,  upon  the  virtue  of  the  masses,  the  pres- 
ence of  any  vice  which  brutalizes  the  average  mass  of 
mankind,  and  tends  to  make  it  more  readily  the  tool  of 

94 


By  WENDELL    PHILLIPS  95 

intriguing  and  corrupt  leaders,  is  necessarily  a  stab  at 
the  very  life  of  the  nation.  Against  such  a  vice  is 
marshalled  the  Temperance  Reformation.  That  my 
sketch  is  no  mere  fancy  picture,  every  one  of  j'-ou 
knows.  Every  one  of  you  can  glance  back  over  your 
own  path,  and  count  many  and  many  a  one  among 
those  who  started  from  the  goal  at  your  side,  with 
equal  energy  and  perhaps  greater  promise,  who  has 
found  a  drunkard's  grave  long  before  this.  The 
brightness  of  the  bar,  the  ornament  of  the  pulpit,  the 
hope  and  blessing  and  stay  of  many  a  family, — you 
know,  every  one  of  you  who  has  reached  middle  life, 
how  often  on  your  path  you  set  up  the  warning, 
"Fallen  before  the  temptations  of  the  streets!" 
Hardly  one  house  in  this  city,  whether  it  be  full  and 
warm  with  all  the  luxury  of  wealth,  or  whether  it  find 
hard,  cold  maintenance  by  the  most  earnest  economy, 
no  matter  which, — hardly  a  house  that  does  not  count, 
among  sons  or  nephews,  some  victim  of  this  vice. 
The  skeleton  of  this  warning  sits  at  every  board. 
The  whole  world  is  kindred  in  this  suffering.  The 
country  mother  launches  her  boy  with  trembling  upon 
the  temptations  of  city  life;  the  father  trusts  his 
daughter  anxiously  to  the  young  man  she  has  chosen, 
knowing  what  a  wreck  intoxication  may  make  of  the 
house-tree  they  set  up.  Alas!  how  often  are  their 
worst  forebodings  more  than  fulfilled!  I  have  known 
a  case — and  probably  many  of  you  can  recall  some 
almost  equal  to  it — where  one  worthy  woman  could 
count  father,  brother,  husband,  and  son-in-law,  all 
drunkards,' — no  man  among  her  near  kindred,  except 
her  son,  who  was  not  a  victim  of  this  vice.  Like  all 
other  appetites,  this  finds  resolution  weak  when  set 


96       ENFORCEMENT  of  the  LIQUOR   LAW 

against  the  constant  presence  of  temptation.  This  is 
the  evil.  How  are  the  laws  relating  to  it  executed  in 
this  city?     Let  me  tell  you. 

First,  there  has  been  great  discussion  of  this  evil, — 
wide,  earnest,  patient  discussion,  for  thirty-five  years. 
The  whole  community  has  been  stirred  by  the  discus- 
sion of  this  question.  Finally,  after  various  experi- 
ments, the  majority  of  the  State  decided  that  the 
method  to  stay  this  evil  was  to  stop  the  open  sale  of 
intoxicating  drink.  They  left  moral  suasion  still  to 
address  the  individual,  and  set  themselves  as  a  com- 
munity to  close  the  doors  of  temptation.  Every  man 
acquainted  with  his  own  nature  or  with  society  knows 
that  weak  virtue,  walking  through  our  streets,  and 
meeting  at  every  tenth  door  (for  that  is  the  average) 
the  temptation  to  drink,  must  fall ;  that  one  must  be  a 
moral  Hercules  to  stand  erect.  To  prevent  the  open 
sale  of  intoxicating  liquor  has  been  the  method  selected 
by  the  State  to  help  its  citizens  to  be  virtuous;  in 
other  words,  the  State  has  enacted  what  is  called  the 
Maine  Liquor  Law, — the  plan  of  refusing  all  licenses 
to  sell,  to  be  drunk  on  the  spot  or  elsewhere,  and 
allowing  only  an  official  agent  to  sell  for  medicinal 
purposes  and  the  arts.  You  may  drink  in  your  own 
parlors,  you  may  make  what  indulgence  you  please 
your  daily  rule,  the  State  does  not  touch  you  there; 
there  you  injure  only  yourself,  and  those  you  directly 
influence;  that  the  State  cannot  reach.  But  when  you 
open  your  door  and  say  to  your  fellow-citizens,  "Come 
and  indulge,"  the  State  has  a  right  to  ask,  "In  what 
do  you  invite  them  to  indulge?  Is  it  something  that 
helps,  or  something  that  harms  the  community?" 

I  will  try  to  show   you,   in    a   moment,   on    what 


By  WENDELL    PHILLIPS  97 

grounds  the  State  decided  that  these  numberless  open 
doors  harmed  the  community,  and  that  the  method  to 
be  adopted  was  to  shut  them  up.  The  majority,  after 
full  argument  in  district  school-houses,  the  streets,  and 
the  State- House,  from  pulpits,  lyceum  platforms,  and 
everywhere  else,  decided  that  prohibition  of  the  traffic 
was  the  only  effective  method.  The  law  was  put  upon 
the  statute-book.  A  reluctant  minority  went  to  the 
Legislature,  and  endeavored  to  repeal  or  amend  it, 
alleging  that  this  was  not  a  good  law ;  and  they  were 
voted  dov/n.  Again  they  went, — were  voted  down. 
A  third  time  they  went, — and  were  voted  down.  They 
then  appealed  to  the  courts,  and  said,  "This  is  not  a 
constitutional  law."  The  courts  said,  "Itis. "  If  any- 
thing ever  had  the  decided,  unmistakable  sanction  of  a 
majority  of  the  people  of  this  Commonwealth,  the 
Maine  Liquor  Law  has  it.  After  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury of  discussion,  it  was  enacted;  three  times  assailed, 
it  was  maintained;  subjected  to  the  crucible  of  the 
court,  it  came  out  pure  gold.  We  have  a  right  to  say 
that  it  is  the  matured,  settled  purpose  of  the  majority 
of  the  Commonwealth;  if  the  majority  have  a  right  to 
govern,  that  law  is  to  govern.  Is  it  not  so?  If  not 
let  the  minority  assail  again  the  Gibraltar  of  the 
statute.  But  meanwhile  it,  like  all  other  laws  not 
immoral,  is  to  be  obeyed.  I  have  not,  therefore,  to 
argue  to-day  whether  the  law  is  good  or  not,  whether 
it  is  wise  or  not.  That  is  settled.  It  is  good  and  wise 
in  the  opinion  of  the  Commonwealth.  The  era  of  pub- 
lic opinion  is  finished,  that  of  law  has  commenced. 
This  is  the  history  of  all  legislation.  Do  not  find  fault 
with  us  for  enacting,  in  due  time,  public  opinion  into  a 
statute.     Where    did  all  statutes  come  from?      Hun- 


98       ENFORCEMENT  of  the  LIQUOR   LAW 

dreds  of  years  ago,  men  argued  the  question,  "Shall 
one  man  own  a  separate  piece  of  land?"  They 
argued  it,  and  settled  that  he  should.  That  became  a 
statute.  They  then  began  to  argue  the  question, 
"Shall  he  transmit  to  his  children  by  will?"  They 
argued  that  for  centuries,  then  said,  "Yes,"  and 
enacted  it.  Nobody  now  goes  behind  those  statutes. 
Hundreds  of  years  ago,  our  race  argued  the  question, 
"Shall  a  man  have  one  wife  or  three?"  We  settled 
that  he  should  have  but  one ;  it  is  the  law  of  the  Com- 
monwealth. 

The  era  of  discussion  and  opinion  is  over;  the  era  of 
legislation  has  come, — the  time  when  the  minority  sits 
down  and  obeys.  With  all  great  questions,  covering 
important  interests,  there  is  a  time  when  public  opin- 
ion stereotypes  itself  into  statutes.  Land,  harvests, 
marriage,  the  laws  against  burglary  and  theft,  settled 
themselves  years  ago.  If  I  raise  a  harvest,  it  is  mine ; 
that  is  the  law  of  the  land.  There  was  a  time  when  it 
was  a  question;  it  is  not  a  question  now.  So  with 
temperance  and  the  Maine  Liquor  Law.  Time  was 
when  the  question  whether  a  man  had  a  right  to  sell 
liquor  openly,  licensed  or  not,  was  discussed ;  we  have 
passed  that  point,  and  reached  the  time  when  the 
majority — in  other  words,  the  State — decrees  that 
these  shops  shall  be  shut. 


THE  SEPULCHER  IN  THE  GARDEN.  From 
"Sermons  by  Henry  Ward  Beecher. "  Copyright, 
Harper  &  Brothers.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By 
HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 

"A TOW  in  the  place  where  he  was  crucified  there 
X\l      was   a    garden,    and    in   the   garden    a     new 
sepulcher,  wherein  was  never  man  yet  laid.     There 
laid  they  Jesus." — John  xix.  41,  42. 

"And  there  was  Mary  Magdalene,  and  the  other  Mary, 
sitting  over  against  the  sepulcher." — Matt,  xxvii.  61. 

There  is  a  sepulcher  in  every  garden.  We  are  all  of 
us  in  this  life  seeking  for  beauty  and  seeking  for  joy, 
following  the  blind  instincts  of  our  nature,  every  one 
of  which  was  made  to  point  up  to  something  higher 
than  that  which  the  present  realizes.  We  are  often, 
almost  without  aim,  without  any  true  guidance,  seek- 
ing to  plant  this  life  so  that  it  shall  be  to  us  what  a 
garden  is.  And  we  seek  out  the  fairest  flowers,  and 
will  have  none  but  the  best  fruits.  Striving  against 
the  noxious  weed,  striving  against  the  stingy  soil,  striv- 
ing against  the  inequalities  of  the  season,  still  these  are 
our  hope.  They  who  build  a  home  and  surround  them- 
selves with  all  the  sweet  enjoyments  of  social  life  are 
but  planting  a  garden.  The  scholar  has  his  garden. 
The  statesman,  too,  has  a  fancied  Eden  with  fruit  and 
flower.  The  humble,  and  those  that  stand  high,  are  all 
of  them  seeking  to  clothe  the  barren  experiences  of  this 
world  with  buds  that  blossom,  blossoms  that  shall  bear 
fruit.  No  man  sees  the  sepulcher  among  his  flowers. 
.  .  .  It  is  the  hope  and  expectation  of  men,  the 
world  over  (and  it  makes  no  difference  what  their  civi- 
lization is,  what  their  culture,  or  what  their  teaching), 
that  they  shall  plant  their  garden,  and  have  flowers 

99 


loo  The  SEPULCHER  in  the  GARDEN 

without  thorns,   summer  without  a  winter,  a  garden 
without  a  rock,  a  rock  without  a  sepulcher! 

It  makes  very  little  difference  that  we  see  other 
men's  delusions.  Nay,  we  stand  upon  the  wall  of  our 
particular  experience,  as  upon  the  walls  of  a  garden,  to 
moralize  upon  the  follies  of  other  men.  And  when 
they  have  their  hands  pierced  in  plucking  their  best 
fruits,  when  disappointments  come  to  their  plantings, 
we  wonder  that  they  should  be  so  blind  as  to  expect 
that  this  world  could  have  joys  without  sorrows,  or 
sunshine  without  storms.  We  carry  instructions  to 
them,  and  comfort  them  with  the  talk  that  this  life  is 
short  and  full  of  affliction ;  we  speak  to  them  of  the 
wreaths  to  be  worn  by  those  who  bear  sorrows;  and 
yet  we  go  as  fondly  and  expectantly  to  our  dream  of 
hope  as  ever. 

And  thus  men  live  as  they  have  lived,  every  man  mak- 
ing his  life  a  garden  planted;  every  man  saying,  "Flow- 
ers! flowers!  flowers!"  and  when  they  come,  every  man 
saying,  "They  shall  abide;  they  shall  blossom  in  an 
endless  summer. "  And  we  go  round  and  round  the 
secret  place,  the  central  place — we  go  round  and  round 
the  point  where  in  every  man's  experience  there  is  a 
sepulcher — and  we  heed  it  not,  and  will  not  know  it. 

But,  in  spite  of  all  this  care  and  painstaking,  there  is 
no  garden  in  the  world,  let  it  be  as  beautiful  as  it  may, 
that  has  not  in  the  midst  of  it  a  sepulcher.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  man  that  is  sure  of  anything  except  of 
dying  and  living  again.  We  see  on  every  side  such 
revelations,  such  changes,  such  surprises,  such  unex- 
pected happenings  and  events,  that  it  is  not  mere 
poetical  moralizing  to  say  that  no  man  is  certain  of 
anything  except  death,  to  be  succeeded  by  life. 


By   HENRY  WARD  BEECHER     loi 

A  plow  is  coming  from  the  far  end  of  a  long  field, 
and  a  daisy  stands  nodding,  and  full  of  dew-dimples. 
That  furrow  is  sure  to  strike  the  daisy.  It  casts  its 
shadow  as  gaily,  and  exhales  its  gentle  breath  as 
freely,  and  stands  as  simple,  and  radiant,  and  expect- 
ant as  ever;  and  yet  that  crushing  furrow,  which  is 
turning  and  turning  others  in  its  course,  is  drawing 
near,  and  in  a  moment  it  whirls  the  heedless  flower 
with  sudden  reversal  under  the  sod ! 

And  as  is  the  daisy,  with  no  power  of  thought,  so  are 
ten  thousand  thinking  sentient  flowers  of  life,  blos- 
soming in  places  of  peril  and  yet  thinking  that  no  fur- 
row of  disaster  is  running  in  towards  them — that  no 
iron  plow  of  trouble  is  about  to  overturn  them. 

When,  then,  our  sorrow  comes,  when  we  are  in  the 
uninstructed  surprise  of  our  trouble,  when  we  first 
discover  this  sepulcher  in  our  garden,  we  sit,  as  these 
women  sat,  over  against  the  sepulcher,  seeing,  in  our 
grief,  nothing  else  but  that.  How  strangely  stupid  is 
grief!  How  it  neither  learns  nor  knows,  nor  wishes  to 
learn  nor  know!  Grief  is  like  the  stamping  of  invis- 
ible ink.  Great  and  glorious  things  are  written  with 
it,  but  they  do  not  come  out  till  they  are  brought  out. 
It  is  not  until  heat  has  been  applied  to  it,  or  until  some 
chemical  substance  has  been  laid  upon  it,  that  that 
which  was  invisible  begins  to  come  forth  in  letter,  and 
sentence,  and  meaning.  In  the  first  instance  we  see  in 
life  only  death — we  see  in  change  destruction.  When 
the  sisters  sat  over  against  the  door  of  the  sepulcher, 
did  they  see  the  two  thousand  years  that  have  passed 
triumphing  away?  Did  they  see  anything  but  this: 
"Our  Christ  is  gone"?  And  yet  your  Christ  and  my 
Christ  came  from  their  loss ;  myriad,  myriad  mourning 


102  The  SEPULCHER  in  the  GARDEN 

hearts  have  had  resurrection  in  the  midst  of  their 
grief;  and  5'^et  the  sorrowful  watchers  looked  at  the 
seed-form  of  this  result  and  saw  nothing.  What  they 
regarded  as  the  end  of  life  was  the  very  preparation 
for  coronation ;  for  Christ  was  silent  that  he  might  live 
again  in  tenfold  power.  They  saw  it  not.  They 
looked  on  the  rock,  and  it  was  rock.  They  looked 
upon  the  stone  door,  and  it  was  the  stone  door  that 
estopped  all  their  hope  and  expectation.  They 
mourned,  and  wept,  and  went  away,  and  came  again, 
drawn  by  their  hearts,  to  the  sepulcher.  Still  it  was  a 
sepulcher,  unprophetic,  voiceless,  lusterless. 

So  with  us.  Every  man  sits  over  against  the 
sepulcher  in  his  garden,  in  the  first  instance,  and  says, 
"It  is  grief;  it  is  woe;  it  is  immedicable  trouble.  I 
see  no  benefit  in  it.  I  will  take  no  comfort  from  it." 
And  yet,  right  in  our  deepest  and  worst  mishaps,  often 
and  often,  our  Christ  is  lying,  waiting  for  resurrection. 
Where  our  death  seems  to  be,  there  our  Saviour  is. 
Where  the  end  of  hope  is,  there  is  the  brightest  begin- 
ning of  fruition.  Where  the  darkness  is  thickest,  there 
the  bright,  beaming  light  that  never  is  to  set  is  about 
to  emerge. 

When  the  whole  experience  is  consummated,  then 
we  find  that  a  garden  is  not  disfigured  by  a  sepulcher. 
Our  joys  are  made  better  if  there  be  a  sorrow  in  the 
midst  of  them,  and  our  sorrows  are  made  bright  by  the 
joys  that  God  had  planted  around  about  them.  The 
flowers  may  not  be  pleasing  to  us,  they  may  not  be 
such  as  we  are  fond  of  plucking,  but  they  are  heart- 
flowers.  Love,  hope,  faith,  joy,  peace — these  are 
flowers  which  are  planted  around  about  every  grave 
that  is  sunk  in  a  Christian  heart. 


THE    USE    AND    ABUSE    OF    PROPERTY.      By 
THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 

I  WANT  to  talk  to  you  of  the  attitude  that  should 
properly  be  observed  by  legislators,  by  executive 
officers,  toward  wealth,  and  the  attitude  that  should  be 
observed  in  return  by  men  of  means,  and  especially  by 
corporations,  toward  the  body  politic  and  toward  their 
fellow-citizens. 

I  utterly  distrust  the  man  of  whom  it  is  continually 
said:  "Oh,  he's  a  good  fellow,  but,  of  course,  in  poli- 
tics, he  plays  politics."  It  is  about  as  bad  for  a 
man  to  profess,  and  for  those  that  listen  to  him  by 
their  plaudits  to  insist  upon  his  professing  something 
which  they  know  he  cannot  live  up  to,  as  it  is  for 
him  to  go  below  what  he  ought  to  do,  because  if  he  gets 
into  the  habit  of  lying  to  himself  and  to  his  audience 
as  to  what  he  intends  to  do,  it  is  certain  to  eat  away 
his  moral  fibre. 

He  won't  be  able  then  to  stand  up  to  what  he  knows 
ought  to  be  done.  The  temptation  of  the  average 
politician  is  to  promise  everything  to  the  reformers  and 
then  to  do  everything  for  the  organization.  I  think  I 
can  say  that,  whatever  I  have  promised  on  the  stump 
or  off  the  stump,  either  expressly  or  impliedly,  to 
either  organization  or  reformers,  I  have  kept  my 
promise;  and  I  should  keep  it  just  as  much  if  the 
reformers  disapproved,  and  vice  versa. 

A  public  man  is  bound  to  represent  his  constituents, 
but  he  is  no  less  bound  to  cease  to  represent  them 
when,  on  a  great  moral  question,  he  feels  that  they  are 
taking  the  wrong  side.  Let  him  go  out  of  politics 
rather  than  stay  in  at  the  cost  of  doing  what  his  own 
conscience  forbids  him  to  do, 

103 


I04  USE  and  ABUSE  of  PROPERTY 

I  think  that  there  is  no  one  problem  that  is  so  dijB&- 
cult  to  deal  with  as  the  problem  of  how  to  do  justice 
to  the  wealth,  either  in  the  hands  of  the  individual  or 
the  corporation,  on  the  one  hand,  or,  on  the  other, 
how  to  see  that  that  wealth  in  return  is  used  for  the 
benefit  of  the  whole  community.  The  tendency  is  for 
men  to  range  themselves  in  two  extreme  camps,  each 
taking  a  position  that  in  the  long  run  would  be  almost 
equally  fatal  to  the  community. 

Oh,  if  I  could  only  impress  upon  you,  if  I  only  had 
the  eloquence  and  the  power  of  enforcing  conviction 
upon  you,  to  make  you  understand  the  two  sides  of  the 
question — not  understand  it,  you  may  do  that  in  theory 
now,  but  to  make  you  realize  it — the  two  sides,  that  the 
rich  man  who  buys  a  privilege  from  a  Board  of  Alder- 
men for  a  railway  which  he  represents,  the  rich  man 
who  gets  a  privilege  through  the  Legislature  by 
bribery  and  corruption  for  any  corporation,  that  man 
is  committing  an  offence  against  the  community  which 
it  is  possible  may  some  day  have  to  be  condoned  for  in 
blood  and  destruction,  not  by  him,  not  by  his  sons,  but 
by  you  and  your  sons.  If  I  could  only  make  you 
understand  that  on  one  side,  and  make  you  understand 
on  the  other — make  the  mass  of  our  people,  make  the 
mass  of  our  voters  understand,  on  the  other — that  the 
worst  thing  they  can  do  is  to  choose  a  representative 
Vv'ho  shall  say,  "I  am  against  corporations;  I  am 
against  capital,"  and  not  a  man  who  shall  say,  "I 
stand  by  the  Ten  Commandments:  I  stand  by  doing 
equal  justice  to  the  man  of  means  and  the  man  without 
means;  I  stand  by  saying  that  no  man  shall  be  stolen 
from  and  that  no  man  shall  steal  from  any  one  else ; 
I  stand  by  saying  that  the  corporations  shall  not  be 


By  THEODORE   ROOSEVELT  105 

blackmailed  on  the  one  side  and  that  the  corporations 
shall  not  acquire  an)''  improper  power  by  corruption 
on  the  other;  that  the  corporations  shall  pay  their 
full  share  of  the  public  burdens,  and  that  when  they 
do  so  they  shall  be  protected  in  their  rights  exactly  as 
any  one  else  is  protected!"  In  other  words,  if  I  could 
only  make  our  people  realize  that  their  one  hope  and 
one  safety  in  dealing  with  this  problem  is  to  send  into 
our  public  bodies  men  who  shall  be  honest,  who  shall 
realize  their  obligations,  not  their  obligations  to  the 
rich  man  and  the  poor  man,  but  between  the  honest 
man  and  the  dishonest  man ! 


THE  IMPEACHMENT  OF  MR.   HASTINGS.      By 
EDMUND  BURKE. 

IN  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  England,  I  charge 
all   this  villainy  upon  Warren   Hastings,  in  this 
last  moment  of  my  application  to  you. 

My  Lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here  to  a  great  act 
of  national  justice?  Do  we  want  a  cause,  my  Lords? 
You  have  the  cause  of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone 
women  of  the  first  rank,  of  desolated  provinces,  and  of 
wasted  kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  Lords?  When  was 
there  so  much  iniquity  ever  laid  to  the  charge  of  any 
one?  No,  my  Lords,  you  must  not  look  to  punish  any 
other  such  delinquent  from  India.  Warren  Hastings 
has  not  left  substance  enough  in  India  to  nourish  such 
another  delinquent. 

My  Lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want?  You  have 
before  you  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain  as  prose- 
cutors ;  and  I  believe,  my  Lords,  that  the  sun,  in  his 
beneficent  progress  round  the  world,  does  not  behold  a 
more  glorious  sight  than  that  of  men,  separated  from  a 
remote  people  by  the  material  bounds  and  barriers  of 
nature,  united  by  the  bond  of  a  social  and  moral  com- 
munity— all  the  Commons  of  England  resenting,  as 
their  own,  the  indignities  and  cruelties,  that  are 
offered  to  all  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal?  My  Lords,  no  example  of 
antiquity,  nothing  in  the  modern  world,  nothing  in  the 
range  of  human  imagination,  can  supply  us  with  a 
tribunal  like  this.  My  Lords,  here  we  see  virtually,  in 
the  mind's  eye,  that  sacred  majesty  of  the  Crown, 
under  whose  authority  you  sit  and  whose  power  you 
exercise. 

io6 


By  EDMUND   BURKE  107 

We  have  here  all  the  branches  of  the  royal  family,  in 
a  situation  between  majesty  and  subjection,  between 
the  sovereign  and  the  subject — offering  a  pledge,  in 
that  situation,  for  the  support  of  the  rights  of  the 
Crown  and  the  liberties  of  the  people,  both  of  which 
extremities  they  touch. 

My  Lords,  we  have  a  great  hereditary  peerage  here ; 
those  who  have  their  own  honor,  the  honor  of  their 
ancestors,  and  of  their  posterity,  to  guard,  and  who  will 
justify,  as  they  always  have  justified,  that  provision  in 
the  Constitution  by  which  justice  is  made  an  hereditary 
office. 

My  Lords,  we  have  here  a  new  nobility,  who  have 
risen,  and  exalted  themselves  by  various  merits,  by 
great  civil  and  military  services,  which  have  extended 
the  fame  of  this  country  from  the  rising  to  the  setting 
sun. 

My  Lords,  you  have  here,  also,  the  lights  of  our 
religion;  you  have  the  bishops  of  England.  My 
Lords,  you  have  that  true  image  of  the  primitive 
Church  in  its  ancient  form,  in  its  ancient  ordinances, 
purified  from  the  superstitions  and  the  vices  which  a 
long  succession  of  ages  will  bring  upon  the  best  institu- 
tions. 

My  Lords,  these  are  the  securities  which  we  have  in 
all  the  constituent  parts  of  the  body  of  this  House. 
We  know  them,  we  reckon,  we  rest  upon  them,  and 
commit  safely  the  interests  of  India  and  of  humanity 
into  your  hands.  Therefore,  it  is  with  confidence, 
that,  ordered  by  the  Commons, 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  of  high  crimes 
and  misdemeanors. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Great 


io8   The  lAlPEACHMENT  of  MR.   HASTINGS 

Britain,  in  Parliament  assembled,  whose  parliamentary- 
trust  he  has  betrayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Commons  of 
Great  Britain,  whose  national  character  he  has  dis- 
honored. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India, 
whose  laws,  rights,  and  liberties  he  has  subverted, 
whose  property  he  has  destroyed,  whose  country  he 
has  laid  waste  and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name,  and  by  virtue  of  those 
eternal  laws  of  justice  which  he  has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself, 
which  he  has  cruelly  outraged,  injured  and  oppressed, 
in  both  sexes,  in  every  age,  rank,  situation,  and  condi- 
tion of  life. 

My  Lords,  the  Commons  will  share  in  every  fate  with 
your  Lordships;  there  is  nothing  sinister  which  can 
happen  to  you,  in  which  we  shall  not  be  involved;  and, 
if  it  should  so  happen,  that  we  shall  be  subjected  to 
some  of  those  frightful  changes  which  we  have  seen; 
if  it  should  happen  that  your  Lordships,  stripped  of  all 
the  decorous  distinctions  of  human  society,  should,  by 
hands  at  once  base  and  cruel,  be  led  to  those  scaffolds 
and  machines  of  murder  upon  which  great  kings  and 
glorious  queens  have  shed  their  blood,  amidst  the  prel- 
ates, amidst  the  nobles,  amidst  the  magistrates,  who 
supported  their  thrones, — may  you  in  those  moments 
feel  that  consolation  which  I  am  persuaded  they  felt  in 
the  critical  moments  of  their  dreadful  agony ! 

My  Lords,  there  is  a  consolation,  and  a  great  conso- 
lation it  is,  which  often  happens  to  oppressed  virtue 
and  fallen  dignity;  it  often  happens  that  the  very 
oppressors  and  persecutors   themselves  are  forced  to 


By  EDMUND    BURKE  109 

bear  testimony  in  its  favor.  The  Parliament  of  Paris 
had  an  origin  very,  very  similar  to  that  of  the  great 
court  before  which  I  stand;  the  Parliament  of  Paris 
continued  to  have  a  great  resemblance  to  it  in  its 
Constitution,  even  to  its  fall;  the  Parliament  of  Paris, 
my  Lords, — WAS;  it  is  gone!  It  has  passed  away;  it 
has  vanished  like  a  dream!  It  fell  pierced  by  the 
sword  of  the  Compte  de  Mirabeau.  And  yet  that  man, 
at  the  time  of  his  inflicting  the  death-wound  of  that 
Parliament,  produced  at  once  the  shortest  and  the 
grandest  funeral  oration  that  ever  was  or  could  be 
made  upon  the  departure  of  a  great  court  of  magis- 
tracy. When  he  pronounced  the  death  sentence  upon 
that  Parliament,  and  inflicted  the  mortal  wound,  he 
declared  that  his  motives  for  doing  it  were  merely 
political,  and  that  their  hands  were  as  pure  as  those  of 
justice  itself,  which  they  administered — a  great  and 
glorious  exit,  my  Lords,  of  a  great  and  glorious  body ! 
My  Lords,  if  you  must  fall,  may  you  so  fall!  But, 
if  you  stand,  and  stand  I  trust  you  will,  together  with 
the  fortunes  of  this  ancient  monarchy — together  with 
the  ancient  laws  and  liberties  of  this  great  and  illus- 
trious kingdom,  may  you  stand  as  unimpeached  in 
honor  as  in  power;  may  you  stand,  not  as  a  substitute 
for  virtue,  but  as  an  ornament  of  virtue,  as  a  security 
for  virtue;  may  you  stand  long,  and  long  stand  the 
terror  of  tyrants;  may  you  stand  the  refuge  of  afflicted 
Nations ;  may  you  stand  a  sacred  temple,  for  the  per- 
petual residence  of  an  inviolable  justice! 


THE  IMPEACHMENT  OF  MR.   HASTINGS.      By 
RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

I  TRUST  your  Lordships  will  not  believe  that, 
because  something  is  necessary  to  retrieve  the 
British  character,  we  call  for  an  example  to  be  made, 
without  due  and  solid  proof  of  the  guilt  of  the  person 
whom  we  pursue : — no,  my  Lords,  we  know  well  that 
it  is  the  glory  of  this  Constitution,  that  not  the  general 
fame  or  character  of  any  man — not  the  weight  or  power 
of  any  prosecutor — no  plea  of  moral  or  political 
expediency — not  even  the  secret  consciousness  of  guilt, 
which  may  live  in  the  bosom  of  the  Judge,  can  justify 
any  British  Court  in  passing  any  sentence,  to  touch  a 
hair  of  the  head,  or  an  atom,  in  any  respect,  of  the 
property,  of  the  fame,  of  the  liberty  of  the  poorest  or 
meanest  subject  that  breathes  the  air  of  this  just  and 
free  land.  We  know,  my  Lords,  that  there  can  be  no 
legal  guilt  without  legal  proof,  and  that  the  rule  which 
defines  the  evidence  is  as  much  the  law  of  the  land  as 
that  which  creates  the  crime.  It  is  upon  that  ground 
we  mean  to  stand. 

,  Major  Scott  comes  to  your  bar — describes  the  short- 
ness of  time- — represents  Mr.  Hastings  as  it  were  con- 
tracting for  a  character — putting  his  memory  into 
commission — making  departments  for  his  conscience. 
A  number  of  friends  meet  together,  and  he,  knowing 
(no  doubt)  that  the  accusation  of  the  Commons  had 
been  drawn  up  by  a  Committee,  thought  it  necessary, 
as  a  point  of  punctilio,  to  answer  it  by  a  Committee 
also.  One  furnishes  the  raw  material  of  fact,  the 
second  spins  the  argument,  and  the  third  twines  up  the 
conclusion,  while  Mr.  Hastings,  with  a  master's  eye,  is 
cheering  and   looking  over  this    loom.      He    says  to 

no 


By  RICHARD  BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN     iii 

one,  "You  have  got  my  good  faith  in  your  hands — 
you,  my  veracity  to  manage.  Mr.  Shore,  I  hope  you 
will  make  me  a  good  financier — Mr.  Middleton,  you 
have  my  humanity  in  commission. "  When  it  is  done, 
he  brings  it  to  the  House  of  Commons,  and  says,  "I 
was  equal  to  the  task.  I  knew  the  difficulties,  but  I 
scorn  them :  here  is  the  truth,  and  if  the  truth  will  con- 
vict me,  I  am  content  myself  to  be  the  channel  of  it!" 
His  friends  hold  up  their  heads,  and  say,  "What  noble 
magnanimity!  This  must  be  the  effect  of  conscious 
and  real  innocence."  Well,  it  is  so  received,  it  is  so 
argued  upon — but  it  fails  of  its  effect. 

Then  says  Mr.  Hastings:  "That  my  defence!  no, 
mere  journeyman-work — good  enough  for  the  Com- 
mons, but  not  fit  for  your  Lordships'  consideration." 
He  then  calls  upon  his  Counsel  to  save  him:  "I  fear 
none  of  my  accusers'  witnesses — I  know  some  of  them 
well — I  know  the  weakness  of  their  memory,  and  the 
strength  of  their  attachment — I  fear  no  testimony  but 
my  own — save  me  from  the  peril  of  my  own  panegyric 
— preserve  me  from  that,  and  I  shall  be  safe."  Then 
is  this  plea  brought  to  your  Lordships'  bar,  and  Major 
Scott  gravely  asserts, — that  Mr.  Hastings  did,  at  the 
bar  of  the  House  of  Commons,  vouch  for  facts  of  which 
he  was  ignorant,  and  for  arguments  which  he  had 
never  read. 

After  such  an  attempt,  we  certainly  are  left  in  doubt 
to  decide,  to  which  set  of  his  friends  Mr.  Hastings  is 
the  least  obliged,  those  who  assisted  him  in  making  his 
defence,  or  those  who  advised  him  to  deny  it. 

I  am  perfectly  convinced  that  there  is  one  idea, 
which  must  arise  in  your  Lordships'  minds  as  a  subject 
of  wonder, — how  a  person  of  Mr.    Hastings'  reputed 


112    The  IMPEACHMENT  ^/ MR.   HASTINGS 

abilities  can  furnish  such  matter  of  accusation  against 
himself.  He  knows  that  truth  must  convict  him,  and 
concludes,  k  converse,  that  falsehood  will  acquit  him ; 
forgetting  that  there  must  be  some  connection,  some 
system,  some  cooperation,  or,  otherwise,  his  host  of 
falsities  fall  without  an  enemy,  self-discomfited  and 
destroyed.  But  of  this  he  never  seems  to  have  had 
the  slightest  apprehension.  He  falls  to  work,  an 
artificer  of  fraud,  against  all  the  rules  of  architecture ; 
— he  lays  his  ornamental  work  first,  and  his  massy 
foundation  at  the  top  of  it;  and  thus  his  whole  building 
tumbles  upon  his  head.  Other  people  look  well  to 
their  ground,  choose  their  position,  and  watch  whether 
they  are  likely  to  be  surprised  there ;  but  he,  as  if  in 
the  ostentation  of  his  heart,  builds  upon  a  precipice, 
and  encamps  upon  a  mine,  from  choice.  He  seems  to 
have  no  one  actuating  principle,  but  a  steady,  persever- 
ing resolution  not  to  speak  the  truth  or  to  tell  the  fact. 
It  is  impossible  almost  to  treat  conduct  of  this  kind 
with  perfect  seriousness;  yet  I  am  aware  that  it  ought 
to  be  more  seriously  accounted  for — because  I  am  sure 
it  has  been  a  sort  of  paradox,  which  must  have  struck 
your  Lordships,  how  any  person  having  so  many 
motives  to  conceal — having  so  many  reasons  to  dread 
detection — should  yet  go  to  work  so  clumsily  upon  the 
subject.  It  is  possible,  indeed,  that  it  may  raise  this 
doubt — whether  such  a  person  is  of  sound  mind  enough 
to  be  a  proper  object  of  punishment;  or  at  least  it  may 
give  a  kind  of  confused  notion  that  the  guilt  cannot  be 
of  so  deep  and  black  a  grain,  over  which  such  a  thin 
veil  was  thrown,  and  so  little  trouble  taken  to  avoid 
detection.  I  am  aware  that,  to  account  for  this  seem- 
ing paradox,  historians,  poets,  and  even  philosophers — 


By  RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN    113 

at  least  of  ancient  times — have  adopted  the  super- 
stitious solution  of  the  vulgar,  and  said  that  the  gods 
deprive  men  of  reason  whom  they  devote  to  destruc- 
tion or  to  punishment.  But  to  unassuming  or  unprej- 
iidiced  reason,  there  is  no  need  to  resort  to  any 
supposed  supernatural  interference ;  for  the  solution 
will  be  found  in  the  eternal  rules  that  formed  the  mind 
of  man,  and  gave  a  quality  and  nature  to  every  passion 
that  inhabits  in  it. 

An  honourable  friend  of  mine,  who  is  now,  I  believe, 
near  me,  has  told  you  that  Prudence,  the  first  of  vir- 
tues, never  can  be  used  in  the  cause  of  vice.  But  I 
should  doubt  whether  we  can  read  the  history  of  a 
Philip  of  Macedon,  a  Caesar,  or  a  Cromwell,  without 
confessing,  that  there  have  been  evil  purposes,  baneful 
to  the  peace  and  to  the  rights  of  men,  conducted — if  I 
may  not  say,  with  prudence  or  with  wisdom — yet  with 
awful  craft  and  most  successful  and  commanding 
subtlety.  If,  however,  I  might  make  a  distinction,  I 
should  say  that  it  is  the  proud  attempt  to  mix  a  variety 
of  lordly  crimes,  that  unsettles  the  prudence  of  the 
mind,  and  breeds  this  distraction  of  the  brain.  One 
master-passion,  domineering  in  the  breast,  may  win 
the  faculties  of  the  understanding  to  advance  its  pur- 
pose, and  to  direct  to  that  object  everything  that 
thought  or  human  knowledge  can  effect ;  but,  to  suc- 
ceed, it  must  maintain  a  solitary  despotism  in  the  mind 
— each  rival  profligacy  must  stand  aloof,  or  wait  in 
abject  vassalage  upon  its  throne.  For,  the  Power, 
that  has  not  forbade  the  entrance  of  evil  passions  into 
man's  mind,  has,  at  least,  forbade  their  union; — if  they 
meet  they  defeat  their  object,  and  their  conquest,  or 
their  attempt  at  it,  is  tumult.     To  turn  to  the  Virtues 


114  The  IMPEACHMENT  ^/ MR.   HASTINGS 

— how  different  the  decree!  Formed  to  connect,  to 
blend,  to  associate,  and  to  cooperate;  bearing  the 
same  course,  with  kindred  energies  and  harmonious 
sympathy,  each  perfect  in  its  own  lovely  sphere,  each 
moving  in  its  wider  or  more  contracted  orbit,  with 
different,  but  concentering  powers,  guided  by  the  same 
influence  of  reason,  and  endeavouring  at  the  same 
blessed  end — the  happiness  of  the  individual,  the  har- 
mony of  the  species,  and  the  glory  of  the  Creator.  In 
the  Vices,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  the  discord  that 
insures  the  defeat — each  clamorous  to  be  heard  in  its 
own  barbarous  language;  each  claims  the  exclusive 
cunning  of  the  brain ;  each  thwarts  and  reproaches  the 
other ;  and  even  while  their  fell  rage  assails  with  com- 
mon hate  the  peace  and  virtue  of  the  world,  the  civil 
war  among  their  own  tumultuous  legions  defeats  the 
purpose  of  the  foul  conspiracy.  These  are  the  Furies 
of  the  mind,  my  Lords,  that  unsettle  the  understand- 
ing; these  are  the  Furies,  that  destroy  the  virtue, 
Prudence, — while  the  distracted  brain  and  shivered 
intellect  proclaim  the  tumult  that  is  within,  and  bear 
their  testimonies,  from  the  mouth  of  God  himself,  to 
the  foul  condition  of  the  heart. 


THE  NEW  SOUTH.     By  HENRY  W.  GRADY. 


"npHERE  was  a  South  of  slavery  and  secession — 
JL  that  South  is  dead.  There  is  a  vSouth  of  Union 
and  freedom — that  South,  thank  God,  is  living, 
breathing,  growing  every  hour."  These  words, 
delivered  from  the  immortal  lips  of  Benjamin  K.  Hill, 
at  Tammany  Hall,  in  1866,  true  then,  and  truer  now, 
I  shall  make  my  text  to-night. 

In  speaking  to  the  toast  with  which  you  have  hon- 
ored me,  I  accept  the  term,  "The  New  South,"  as  in 
no  sense  disparaging  to  the  old.  Dear  to  me,  sir,  is 
the  home  of  my  childhood,  and  the  traditions  of  my 
people.  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  dim  the  glory  they 
won  in  peace  and  war,  or  by  word  or  deed  take  aught 
from  the  splendor  and  grace  of  their  civilization, 
never  equaled,  and  perhaps  never  to  be  equaled  in  its 
chivalric  strength  and  grace.  There  is  a  New  South, 
not  through  protest  against  the  old,  but  because  of  new 
conditions,  new  adjustments,  and,  if  you  please,  new 
ideas  and  aspirations.  It  is  to  this  that  I  address 
myself,  and  to  the  consideration  of  which  I  hasten,  lest 
it  become  the  Old  South  before  I  get  to  it.  Age  does 
not  endow  all  things  with  strength  and  virtue,  nor  are 
all  new  things  to  be  despised.  The  shoemaker  who 
put  over  his  door,  "John  Smith's  shop,  founded  1760," 
was  more  than  matched  by  his  young  rival  across  the 
street  who  hung  out  this  sign:  "Bill  Jones.  Estab- 
lished 1886.     No  old  stock  kept  in  this  shop." 

Dr.  Talmage  has  drawn  for  you,  with  a  master 
hand,  the  picture  of  your  returning  armies.  He  has 
told  you  how,  in  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war, 

115 


ii6  The   NEW   SOUTH 

they  came  back  to  yoii,  marching  with  proud  and 
victorious  tread,  reading-  their  glory  in  a  nation's  eyes! 
Will  5'ou  bear  with  me  while  I  tell  you  of  another  army 
that  sought  its  home  at  the  close  of  the  late  war?  An 
army  that  marched  home  in  defeat  and  not  in  victory — 
in  pathos  and  not  in  splendor,  but  in  glory  that  equaled 
yours,  and  to  hearts  as  loving  as  ever  welcomed  heroes 
home.  Let  me  picture  to  you  the  foot-sore  Confeder- 
ate soldier,  as,  buttoning  up  in  his  faded  gray  jacket 
the  parole  which  was  to  bear  testimony  to  his  children 
of  his  fidelity  and  faith,  he  turned  his  face  southward 
from  Appomattox  in  April,  1865.  Think  of  him  as 
ragged,  half-starved,  heavy-hearted,  enfeebled  by 
want  and  wounds;  having  fought  to  exhaustion,  he 
surrenders  his  gun,  wrings  the  hands  of  his  comrades 
in  silence,  and,  lifting  his  tear-stained  and  pallid  face 
for  the  last  time  to  the  graves  that  dot  the  old  Vir- 
ginia hills,  pulls  his  gray  cap  over  his  brow  and  begins 
the  slow  and  painful  journey.  What  does  he  find? — let 
me  ask  you  who  went  to  your  homes  eager  to  find,  in 
the  welcome  you  had  justly  earned,  full  payment  for 
four  years'  sacrifice — what  does  he  find  when,  having 
followed  the  battle-stained  cross  against  overwhelming 
odds,  dreading  death  not  half  so  much  as  surrender,  he 
reaches  the  home  he  left  so  prosperous  and  beautiful? 
He  finds  his  house  in  ruins,  his  farm  devastated,  his 
slaves  free,  his  stock  killed,  his  barn  empty,  his  trade 
destroyed,  his  money  worthless;  his  social  system, 
feudal  in  its  magnificence,  swept  away;  his  people 
without  law  or  legal  status;  his  comrades  slain,  and 
the  burdens  of  others  heavy  on  his  shoulders.  Crushed 
by  defeat,  his  very  traditions  gone;  without  money, 
credit,  employment,  material  training;  and  besides  all 


By  HENRY   W.  GRADY  117 

this,  confronted  with  the  gravest  problem  that  ever 
met  human  intelligence — the  establishing  of  a  status 
for  the  vast  body  of  his  liberated  slaves. 

What  does  he  do — this  hero  in  gray,  with  a  heart  of 
gold?  Does  he  sit  down  in  sullenness  and  despair? 
Not  for  a  day.  Surely  God,  who  had  stripped  him  of 
his  prosperity,  inspired  him  in  his  adversity.  As  ruin 
was  never  before  so  overwhelming,  never  was  restora- 
tion swifter.  The  soldier  stepped  from  the  trenches 
into  the  furrow;  horses  that  had  charged  Federal 
guns  marched  before  the  plow,  and  the  fields  that  ran 
red  with  human  blood  in  April  were  green  with  the 
harvest  in  June;  women  reared  in  luxury  cut  up  their 
dresses  and  made  breeches  for  their  husbands,  and, 
with  a  patience  and  heroism  that  fit  women  always  as  a 
garment,  gave  their  hands  to  work.  There  was  little 
bitterness  in  all  this.  Cheerfulness  and  frankness 
prevailed.  ...  I  want  to  say  to  General  Sherman 
— who  is  considered  an  able  man  in  our  parts,  though 
some  people  think  he  is  kind  of  careless  about  fire — 
that  from  the  ashes  he  left  us  in  1864,  we  have  raised  a 
brave  and  beautiful  city;  that  somehow  or  other  we 
have  caught  the  sunshine  in  the  bricks  and  mortar  of 
our  homes,  and  have  builded  therein  not  one  ignoble 
prejudice  or  memory. 

But  in  all  this  what  have  we  accomplished?  What  is 
the  sum  of  our  work?  We  have  found  that  in  the 
general  summary  the  free  negro  counts  more  than  he 
did  as  a  slave.  We  have  planted  the  schoolhouse  on 
the  hilltop  and  made  it  free  to  white  and  black.  We 
have  sowed  towns  and  cities  in  the  place  of  theories, 
and  put  business  above  politics.  We  have  learned 
that  the  $400,000,000  annually  received  from  our  cot- 


ii8  The  NEW   SOUTH 

ton  crop  will  make  ns  rich,  when  the  supplies  that 
make  it  are  home-raised.  We  have  reduced  the  com- 
mercial rate  of  interest  from  twenty-four  to  four  per 
cent.,  and  are  floating  four  per  cent,  bonds.  We  have 
learned  that  one  Northern  immigrant  is  worth  fifty 
foreigners,  and  have  smoothed  the  path  to  the  south- 
ward, wiped  out  the  place  where  Mason  and  Dixon's 
line  used  to  be,  and  hung  out  our  latchstring  to  you 
and  yours. 

We  have  reached  the  point  that  marks  perfect  har- 
mony in  every  household,  when  the  husband  confesses 
that  the  pies  which  his  wife  cooks  are  as  good  as  those 
his  mother  used  to  bake;  and  we  admit  that  the  sun 
shines  as  brightly  and  the  moon  as  softly  as  it  did 
"before  the  war."  We  have  established  thrift  in  the 
city  and  country.  We  have  fallen  in  love  with  work. 
We  have  restored  comforts  to  homes  from  which  cul- 
ture and  elegance  never  departed.  We  have  let 
economy  take  root  and  spread  among  us  as  rank  as  the 
crab  grass  which  sprung  from  Sherman's  cavalry 
camps,  until  we  are  ready  to  lay  odds  on  the  Georgia 
Yankee,  as  he  manufactures  relics  of  the  battlefield  in 
a  one-story  shanty  and  squeezes  pure  olive  oil  out  of  his 
cotton  seed,  against  any  downeaster  that  ever  swapped 
wooden  nutmegs  for  flannel  sausages  in  the  valley  of 
Vermont. 

Above  all,  we  know  that  we  have  achieved  in  these 
"piping  times  of  peace"  a  fuller  independence  for  the 
South  than  that  which  our  fathers  sought  to  win  in  the 
forum  by  their  eloquence,  or  compel  on  the  field  by 
their  swords. 


By   HENRY  W.  GRADY        119 

THE  NEW  SOUTH 
II 

It  is  a  rare  privilege,  sir,  to  have  had  a  part,  how- 
ever humble,  in  this  v^ork.  Never  was  nobler  duty- 
confided  to  human  hands  than  the  uplifting  and 
upbuilding  of  the  prostrate  and  bleeding  South,  mis- 
guided, perhaps,  but  beautiful  in  her  suffering,  and 
honest,  brave,  and  generous  always.  In  the  record  of 
her  social,  industrial,  and  political  restoration  we  await 
with  confidence  the  verdict  of  the  world. 

But  what  of  the  negro?  Have  we  solved  the  prob- 
lem he  presents,  or  progressed  in  honor  and  equity 
toward  the  solution?  Let  the  record  speak  to  the 
point.  No  section  shows  a  more  prosperous  laboring 
population  than  the  negroes  of  the  South ;  none  in 
fuller  sympathy  with  the  employing  and  land-owning 
class.  He  shares  our  school  fund,  has  the  fullest  pro- 
tection of  our  laws,  and  the  friendship  of  our  people. 
Self-interest,  as  well  as  honor,  demands  that  they 
should  have  this.  Our  future,  our  very  existence, 
depends  upon  our  working  out  this  problem  in  full  and 
exact  justice.  We  understand  that  when  Lincoln 
signed  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  your  victory 
was  assured;  for  he  then  committed  you  to  the  cause 
of  human  liberty,  against  which  the  arms  of  man  can- 
not prevail ;  while  those  of  our  statesmen  who  trusted 
to  make  slavery  the  corner-stone  of  the  Confederacy 
doomed  us  to  defeat  as  far  as  they  could,  committing 
us  to  a  cause  that  reason  could  not  defend  or  the  sword 
maintain  in  the  sight  of  advancing  civilization.     Had 


I20  The  NEW   SOUTH 

Mr.  Toombs  said,  which  he  did  not  say,  that  he  would 
call  the  roll  of  his  slaves  at  the  foot  of  Bunker  Hill,  he 
would  have  been  foolish,  for  he  might  have  known 
that  whenever  slavery  became  entangled  in  war  it 
must  perish,  and  that  the  chattel  in  human  flesh  ended 
forever  in  New  England  when  your  fathers — not  to  be 
blamed  for  parting  with  what  did  not  pay — sold  their 
slaves  to  our  fathers,  not  to  be  praised  for  knowing  a 
paying  thing  when  they  saw  it. 

The  relations  of  the  Southern  people  with  the  negro 
are  close  and  cordial.  We  remember  with  what 
fidelity  for  four  years  he  guarded  our  defenceless 
women  and  children,  whose  husbands  and  fathers 
were  fighting  against  his  freedom.  To  his  credit  be  it 
said  that  whenever  he  struck  a  blow  for  his  ovvrn  liberty 
he  fought  in  open  battle,  and  when  at  last  he  raised 
his  black  and  humble  hands  that  the  shackles  might  be 
struck  off,  those  hands  were  innocent  of  wrong  against 
his  helpless  charges,  and  worthy  to  be  taken  in  loving 
grasp  by  every  man  who  honors  loyalty  and  devotion. 

Ruffians  have  maltreated  him,  rascals  have  misled 
him,  philanthropists  established  a  bank  for  him, 
but  the  South  with  the  North  protest  against 
injustice  to  this  simple  and  sincere  people.  To 
liberty  and  enfranchisement  is  as  far  as  the  law  can 
carry  the  negro.  The  rest  must  be  left  to  conscience 
and  common  sense.  It  should  be  left  to  those  among 
whom  his  lot  is  cast,  with  whom  he  is  indissolubly 
connected,  and  whose  prosperity  depends  upon  their 
possessing  his  intelligent  sympathy  and  confidence. 
Faith  has  been  kept  with  him  in  spite  of  calumnious 
assertions  to  the  contrary  by  those  who  assume  to 
speak  for  us,  or  by  frank  opponents.     Faith  will  be 


By  HENRY   W.    GRADY  121 

kept  with  him  in  the  future,  if  the  South  holds  her 
reason  and  integrity. 

But  have  we  kept  faith  with  you?  In  the  fullest 
sense,  yes.  When  Lee  surrendered — I  don't  say  when 
Johnston  surrendered,  because  I  understand  he  still 
alludes  to  the  time  when  he  met  General  Sherman 
last  as  the  time  when  he  "determined  to  abandon  any 
further  prosecution  of  the  struggle" — when  Lee  sur- 
rendered, I  say,  and  Johnston  quit,  the  South  became, 
and  has  been,  loyal  to  the  Union.  We  fought  hard 
enough  to  know  that  we  were  whipped,  and  in  perfect 
frankness  accepted  as  final  the  arbitrament  of  the 
sword  to  which  we  had  appealed.  The  South  found 
her  jewel  in  the  toad's  head  of  defeat.  The  shackles 
that  had  held  her  in  narrow  limitations  fell  forever 
when  the  shackles  of  the  negro  slave  were  broken. 

Under  the  old  regime  the  negroes  were  slaves  to  the 
South,  the  South  was  a  slave  to  the  system.  The  old 
plantation,  with  its  simple  police  regulations  and  its 
feudal  habit,  was  the  only  type  possible  under  slavery. 
Thus  was  gathered  in  the  hands  of  a  splendid  and 
chivalric  oligarchy  the  substance  that  should  have 
been  diffused  among  the  people,  as  the  rich  blood, 
under  certain  artificial  conditions,  is  gathered  at  the 
heart,  filling  that  with  affluent  rupture,  but  leaving  the 
body  chill  and  colorless. 

The  old  South  rested  everything  on  slavery  and 
agriculture,  unconscious  that  these  could  neither  give 
nor  maintain  healthy  growth.  The  new  South  pre- 
sents a  perfect  Democracy,  the  oligarchs  leading  in 
the  popular  movement — a  social  system  compact  and 
closely  knitted,  less  splendid  on  the  surface,  but 
stronger  at  the  core;  a  hundred  farms  for  every  plan- 


Hi  The  NEW   SOUTH 

tation,  fifty  homes  for  every  palace,  and  a  diversified 
industry  that  meets  the  complex  needs  of  this  complex 
age. 

THE    NEW   SOUTH 

HI 

The  new  South  is  enamored  of  her  new  work.  Her 
soul  is  stirred  with  the  breath  of  a  new  life.  The  light 
of  a  grander  day  is  falling  fair  on  her  face.  She  is 
thrilling  with  the  consciousness  of  a  growing  power 
and  prosperity.  As  she  stands  upright,  full-statured 
and  equal  among  the  people  of  the  earth,  breathing 
the  keen  air  and  looking  out  upon  the  expanding 
horizon,  she  understands  that  her  emancipation  came 
because  in  the  inscrutable  wisdom  of  God  her  honest 
purpose  was  crossed  and  her  brave  armies  were 
beaten. 

This  is  said  in  no  spirit  of  time-serving  or  apology. 
The  South  has  nothing  for  which  to  apologize.  She 
believes  that  the  late  struggle  between  the  States  was 
war  and  not  rebellion,  revolution  and  not  conspiracy, 
and  that  her  convictions  were  as  honest  as  yours.  I 
should  be  unjust  to  the  dauntless  spirit  of  the  South 
and  to  my  own  convictions  if  I  did  not  make  this  plain 
in  this  presence.  The  South  has  nothing  to  take  back. 
In  my  native  town  of  Athens  is  a  monument  that 
crowns  its  central  hills — a  plain,  white  shaft.  Deep 
cut  into  its  shining  side  is  a  name  dear  to  me  above 
the  names  of  men,  that  of  a  brave  and  simple  man 
who  died  in  a  brave  and  simple  faith.  Not  for  all  the 
glories  of  New  England — from  Plymouth  Rock  all  the 
way — would  I  exchange  the  heritage  he  left  me  in  his 


By  HENRY   W.    GRADY  123 

soldier's  death.  To  the  feet  of  that  shaft  I  shall  send 
my  children's  children  to  reverence  him  who  ennobled 
their  name  with  his  heroic  blood.  But,  sir,  speaking 
from  the  shadow  of  that  memory,  which  I  honor  as  I 
do  nothing  else  on  earth,  I  say  that  the  cause  in 
which  he  suffered  and  for  which  he  gave  his  life  was 
adjudged  by  higher  and  fuller  wisdom  than  his  or 
mine,  and  I  am  glad  that  the  omniscient  God  held  the 
balance  of  battle  in  His  Almighty  Hand,  and  that 
human  slavery  was  swept  forever  from  American  soil 
— the  American  Union  saved  from  the  wreck  of  the 
war. 

This  message,  Mr.  President,  comes  to  you  from 
consecrated  ground.  Every  foot  of  the  soil  about  the 
city  in  which  I  live  is  sacred  as  a  battle-ground  of  the 
republic.  Every  hill  that  invests  it  is  hallowed  to  you 
by  the  blood  of  your  brothers  who  died  for  your  vic- 
tory, and  doubly  hallowed  to  us  by  the  blood  of  those 
who  died  hopeless,  but  undaunted,  in  defeat — sacred 
soil  to  all  of  us,  which  with  memories  that  make  us 
purer  and  stronger  and  better,  silent  but  stanch  wit- 
nesses in  its  red  desolation  of  the  matchless  valor  of 
American  hearts  and  the  deathless  glory  of  American 
arms— speaking  an  eloquent  witness,  in  its  white  peace 
and  prosperity,  to  the  indissoluble  union  of  American 
States  and  the  imperishable  brotherhood  of  the  Ameri- 
can people. 

Now  what  answer  has  New  England  to  this  message  .!• 
Will  she  permit  the  prejudice  of  war  to  remain  in  the 
hearts  of  the  conquerors,  when  it  has  died  in  the  hearts 
of  the  conquered?  Will  she  transmit  this  prejudice  to 
the  next  generation,  that  in  their  hearts,  which  never 
felt  the  generous  ardor  of  conflict,  it  may  perpetuate 


124  The  NEW   SOUTH 

itself?  Will  she  withhold,  save  in  strained  courtesy, 
the  hand  which,  straight  from  his  soldier's  heart, 
Grant  offered  to  Lee  at  Appomattox?  Will  she  make 
the  vision  of  a  restored  and  happy  people,  which 
gathered  above  the  couch  of  your  dying  captain,  filling 
his  heart  with  grace,  touching  his  lips  with  praise  and 
glorifying  his  path  to  the  grave ;  will  she  make  this 
vision,  on  which  the  last  sigh  of  his  expiring  soul 
breathed  a  benediction,  a  cheat  and  a  delusion?  If  she 
does,  the  South,  never  abject  in  asking  for  comrade- 
ship, must  accept  with  dignity  its  refusal ;  but  if  she 
does  not- — if  she  accepts  with  frankness  and  sincerity 
this  message  of  good  will  and  friendship,  then  will  the 
prophecy  of  Webster,  delivered  in  this  very  Society 
forty  years  ago,  amid  tremendous  applause,  be  verified 
in  its  fullest  and  final  sense,  when  he  said:  "Standing 
hand  to  hand  and  clasping  hands,  we  should  remain 
united  as  we  have  for  sixty  years,  citizens  of  the  same 
country,  members  of  the  same  government,  united  all, 
united  now,  and  united  forever.  There  have  been 
difficulties,  contentions,  and  controversies,  but  I  tell 
you  that  in  my  judgment 

" 'Those  opposed  eyes, 
Which,  like  the  meteors  of  a  troubled  heaven, 
All  of  one  nature,  of  one  substance  bred, 
Did  lately  meet  in  th'  intestine  shock. 
Shall  now,  in  mutual,  well-beseeming  ranks 
March  all  one  way. '  " 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.     By  EMILIO  CASTELAR. 

THE  Puritans  are  the  patriarchs  of  liberty;  they 
opened  a  new  world  on  the  earth ;  they  opened  a 
new  path  for  the  human  conscience;  they  created  a 
new  society.  Yet,  when  England  tried  to  subdue 
them  and  they  conquered,  the  republic  triumphed  and 
slavery  remained.  Washington  could  only  emancipate 
his  slaves.  Franklin  said  that  the  Virginians  could 
not  invoke  the  name  of  God,  retaining  slavery.  Jay 
said  that  all  the  prayers  America  sent  up  to  Heaven 
for  the  preservation  of  liberty  while  slavery  continued, 
were  mere  blasphemies.  Mason  mourned  over  the 
payment  his  descendants  must  make  for  this  great 
crime  of  their  fathers.  Jefferson  traced  the  line  where 
the  black  wave  of  slavery  should  be  stayed. 

Nevertheless,  slavery  increased  continually.  I  beg 
that  you  will  pause  a  moment  to  consider  the  man  who 
cleansed  this  terrible  stain  which  obscured  the  stars  of 
the  American  banner.  I  beg  that  you  will  pause  a 
moment,  for  his  immortal  name  has  been  invoked  for 
the  perpetuation  of  slavery.  Ah !  the  past  century  has 
not,  the  century  to  come  will  not  have,  a  figure  so  grand, 
because  as  evil  disappears  so  disappears  heroism  also. 

I  have  often  contemplated  and  described  his  life. 
Born  in  a  cabin  of  Kentucky,  of  parents  who  could 
hardly  read ;  born  a  new  Moses  in  the  solitude  of  the 
desert,  where  are  forged  all  great  and  obstinate 
thoughts,  monotonous  like  the  desert,  and,  like  the 
desert,  sublime;  growing  up  among  those  primeval 
forests,  which,  with  their  fragrance,  send  a  cloud  of 
incense,  and,  with  their  murmurs,  a  cloud  of  prayers 
to  Heaven;  a  boatman  at  eight  years  in  the  impetuous 
current  of  the  Ohio,  and  at  seventeen  in  the  vast  and 

125 


126  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

tranquil  waters  of  the  Mississippi;  later,  a  ■woodman, 
with  axe  and  arm  felling  the  immemorial  trees,  to  open 
a  way  to  unexplored  regions  for  his  tribe  of  wandering 
workers;  reading  no  other  book  than  the  Bible,  the 
book  of  great  sorrows  and  great  hopes,  dictated  often 
by  prophets  to  the  sound  of  fetters  they  dragged 
through  Nineveh  and  Babylon;  a  child  of  Nature,  in  a 
word,  by  one  of  those  miracles  only  comprehensible 
among  free  peoples,  he  fought  for  the  country,  and 
was  raised  by  his  fellow-citizens  to  the  Congress  at 
Washington,  and  by  the  nation  to  the  Presidency  of 
the  Republic ;  and  when  the  evil  grew  more  virulent, 
when  those  States  were  dissolved,  when  the  slave- 
holders uttered  their  war  cry  and  the  slaves  their 
groans  of  despair — the  wood-cutter,  the  boatman,  the 
son  of  the  great  West,  the  descendant  of  Quakers, 
humblest  of  the  humble  before  his  conscience,  greatest 
of  the  great  before  history,  ascends  the  Capitol,  the 
greatest  moral  height  of  our  time,  and  strong  and 
serene  with  his  conscience  and  his  thought;  before 
him  a  veteran  army,  hostile  Europe  behind  him,  Eng- 
land favoring  the  South,  France  encouraging  reaction 
in  Mexico,  in  his  hands  the  riven  country;  he  arms 
two  millions  of  men,  gathers  a  half  million  of  horses, 
sends  his  artillery  1,200  miles  in  a  week,  from  the 
banks  of  the  Potomac  to  the  shores  of  Tennessee; 
fights  more  than  six  hundred  battles;  renews  before 
Richmond  the  deeds  of  Alexander,  of  Caesar;  and, 
after  having  emancipated  3,000,000  slaves,  that  noth- 
ing might  be  wanting,  he  dies  in  the  very  moment  of 
victory — like  Christ,  like  Socrates,  like  all  redeemers, 
at  the  foot  of  his  work.  His  work!  Sublime  achieve- 
ment! over  which  humanity  shall  eternally  shed  its 
tears,  and  God  his  benediction ! 


AFTER-DINNER  SPEECH.  Re-uniting  the  Hearts 
and  Hands  of  England  and  America.  By  SIR 
HENRY  LYTTON   BULWER. 

MR.  CHAIRMAN  AND  GENTLEMEN,  if  it  be 
true,  that  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  con- 
tribute in  any  way  to  the  friendly  relations  which  at 
present  exist  between  the  two  countries,  it  is  simply 
because  I  have  taken  a  plain  downright  course  for 
effecting  this  object.  The  fact  of  it  is,  gentlemen, 
that,  according  to  old  customs,  when  any  causes  for 
difference,  however  slight,  existed  between  our  two 
governments,  down  sat  Her  Majesty's  Representative 
at  his  desk,  and  down  sat  the  United  States  Secretary 
of  State  at  his  desk,  and  each  penned  to  the  other  very 
pithy  and  pertinent  despatches,  showing  the  great 
motives  for  grievance  there  were  on  both  sides,  and 
then  those  despatches  were  carefully  circulated 
throughout  both  countries;  but  when  there  were  only 
causes  for  mutual  good-will  and  satisfaction,  no  one 
thought  it  worth  while  to  take  notice  of  so  simple  a 
fact,  nor  to  state  to  the  English  and  American  public 
what  strong  reasons,  both  in  sentiment  and  interest, 
there  existed,  for  their  maintaining  the  closest  and 
most  friendly  relations  with  each  other.  This  was  the 
old  school  of  diplomacy,  gentlemen;  but  I  am  of  the 
new  school — and  my  theory  and  practice  are  just  the 
reverse  of  what  I  have  been  describing.  I  am  for 
keeping  as  quiet  as  possible  all  those  small  differences 
which  must  occasionally  take  place  between  any  two 
great  States,  having  vast  and  complicated  interests; 
but  which  differences  are  always  easy  of  adjustment 
when  they  are  not  aggravated  by  unfriendly  and 
untimely  discussion.     And  I  am  for  making  as  public 

1.2.7 


128  AFTER-DINNER   SPEECH 

as  possible,  on  all  occasions,  those  great  points  of 
union  that  must  connect  two  nations,  which  not  only, 
as  my  honorable  friend  Mr.  Lawrence  has  said,  have 
one  origin,  and  speak  one  language,  but  which  also 
transact  their  greatest  amount  of  business  with  each 
other.  Why,  gentlemen,  in  what  possible  manner  can 
difficulties  of  serious  character  arise  between  two 
nations  thus  situated,  except  through  mutual  preju- 
dices, which,  having  been  suffered  to  grow  up,  will  be 
apt,  until  eradicated,  to  create  a  wrong  impression  as 
to  the  real  policy  and  feelings  of  the  one  and  the 
other?  My  endeavors,  then,  gentlemen,  have  been  to 
remove  all  such  prejudices;  ay,  and  to  replace  them 
by  sympathies.  For  this  purpose,  as  my  friend  Mr. 
Walker  justly  said,  I  have  addressed  myself  not  merely 
to  the  American  mind,  but  to  the  American  heart. 
For  this  purpose,  I  have  thought  it  essential,  not 
merely  to  correspond  formally  with  your  State  depart- 
ment, but  also  to  have  frank  and  free  communication 
with  your  noble  and  intelligent  people.  For  this  pur- 
pose, I  have  mixed  with  your  public  men,  studied  your 
institutions,  taken  an  interest  in  your  affairs,  partaken 
of  your  festivities,  conformed  to  your  habits,  and 
always  been  willing,  not  only  to  eat  a  good  dinner  with 
you,  but  to  make  a  bad  speech  after  one.  Gentlemen, 
I  should  be  quite  satisfied  to  take,  as  my  reward  for 
these  efforts,  the  eloquent  and  far  more  than  deserved 
encomium  which  has  been  passed  upon  me  by  the  dis- 
tinguished gentleman  who  proposed  the  toast  I  am 
responding  to.  But  my  mission  had  also  another 
reward — another  result — which,  if  I  am  not  wearying 
you,  I  will  state  as  being  not  only  interesting  to  our 
two  communities,  but  to  the  world  at  large ;  I  mean  a 


By  SIR  HENRY  LYTTON  BULWER        129 

treaty  by  which  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States, 
without  infringing  on  the  rights  of  the  humblest  indi- 
vidual or  the  smallest  State,  have  agreed,  on  one  condi- 
tion, to  protect  the  construction  and  guarantee  the 
security  when  constructed,  of  any  canal  or  railway 
which  may  open  a  passage  across  Central  America, 
between  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Oceans.  And  what 
was  that  one  condition  on  which  our  tw^o  governments 
thus  insisted?  Why,  that  they  should  not,  either 
separately  or  conjointly,  possess  one  single  privilege  or 
advantage,  with  respect  to  such  canal  or  railway, 
which  should  not  be  offered,  on  equal  terms,  to  every 
other  nation  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  Gentlemen,  I 
do  confess  that  I  am  proud  that  such  a  treaty  as  this 
should  have  been  entered  into  by  the  United  States  and 
Great  Britain;  and  I  will  also  add  that  I  have  a 
humble  pride  in  stating  that  one  of  the  signatures 
attached  to  that  convention  is  the  name  of  the  indi- 
vidual who  has  now  the  honour  of  addressing  you. 
Gentlemen,  I  lay  a  great  stress  upon  this  fact,  because 
I  felt  when  I  signed  that  instrument  to  which  I  am 
referring,  that  I  laid  the  foundation  stone  of  a  great 
and  equitable  alliance  between  our  two  countries ; — an 
alliance  which  should  not  have  for  its  object  the 
wronging  or  despoiling,  but  the  benefiting  and  pro- 
tecting the  rest  of  mankind ;  and  surely,  gentlemen,  if 
such  an  union  were  ever  required,  it  is  at  this  moment ; 
— for  at  this  moment  the  world  is,  as  it  were,  violently 
vibrating  between  two  extremes,  and  appears  of  neces- 
sity to  demand  some  regulating  influence,  to  moderate 
and  steady  its  oscillations; — and  where,  gentlemen, 
can  such  an  influence  be  better  found  than  in  the 
cordial  union  of  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States? 


I30  AFTER-DINNER   SPEECH 

It  is  true  that  you  live  under  a  Republic,  and  we 
under  a  Monarchy;  but  what  of  that?  The  founda- 
tions of  both  societies  are  law  and  religion.  The  pur- 
pose of  both  governments  is  liberty  and  order.  The 
more  you  love  your  Republic,  gentlemen,  the  more  you 
detest  those  principles  of  confusion  and  division,  which 
would  destroy  it.  The  more  we  love  our  Monarchy, 
the  more  we  cherish  and  cling  to  those  principles  of 
equity  and  freedom  which  preserve  it.  In  this, 
indeed,  lies  the  great  moral  strength  of  our  close  con- 
nexion. Hand  in  hand,  we  can  stand  together,  alike 
opposed  to  the  anarchist,  who  calls  himself  the  friend 
of  the  People,  and  to  the  absolutist,  who  calls  himself 
the  friend  of  the  Throne.  Long,  then,  gentlemen,  let 
us  thus  stand  together,  the  champions  of  peace  between 
nations,  of  conciliation  between  opinions — and  if,  not- 
withstanding our  example  and  our  efforts,  the  trumpet 
of  war  should  sound,  and  that  war  to  which  it  calls  us 
should  be  a  war  of  opinion,  why,  still  let  us  stand 
together.  Our  friends,  in  that  day  of  conflict,  shall  be 
chosen  from  the  most  wise,  the  most  moderate,  and 
the  most  just;  nor,  whilst  we  plant  the  red-cross  of 
England  by  the  side  of  the  stars  and  stripes  of  America, 
do  I  for  one  instant  doubt  but  that  we  shall  leave  recol- 
lections to  our  posterity  worthy  of  those  which  we  have 
inherited  from  our  ancestors. 


MORAL    FORCE     OF     PUBLIC     OPINION.      By 
DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

IT  may  be  asked,  perhaps,  Supposing  all  this  to  be 
true,  what  can  we  do.'  Are  we  to  go  to  war?  Are 
we  to  interfere  in  the  Greek  cause,  or  any  other  Euro- 
pean cause?  Are  we  to  endanger  our  pacific  relations? 
No,  certainly  not.  What,  then,  the  question  recurs, 
remains  for  us?  If  we  will  not  endanger  our  own 
peace,  if  we  will  neither  furnish  armies  nor  navies  to 
the  cause  which  we  think  the  just  one,  what  is  there 
within  our  power? 

Sir,  this  reasoning  mistakes  the  age.  The  time  has 
been,  indeed,  when  fleets,  and  armies,  and  subsidies 
were  the  principal  reliances  even  in  the  best  cause. 
But,  happily  for  mankind,  a  great  change  has  taken 
place  in  this  respect.  Moral  causes  come  into  con- 
sideration, in  proportion  as  the  progress  of  knowledge 
is  advanced;  and  the  public  opinion  of  the  civilized 
world  is  rapidly  gaining  an  ascendency  over  mere 
brutal  force.  It  is  already  able  to  oppose  the  most 
formidable  obstruction  to  the  progress  of  injustice  and 
oppression ;  and  as  it  grows  more  intelligent  and 
more  intense,  it  will  be  more  and  more  formidable. 
It  may  be  silenced  by  military  power,  but  it  cannot  be 
conquered.  It  is  elastic,  irrepressible,  and  invulner- 
able to  the  weapons  of  ordinary  warfare.  It  is  that 
impassible,  unextinguishable  enemy  of  mere  violence 
and  arbitrary  rule,  which,  like  Milton's  angels' 

Vital  in  every  part 

Cannot,  but  by  annihilating,  die. 

Until  this  be  propitiated  or  satisfied,  it  is  vain  for 
power  to  talk  either  of  triumphs  or  of  repose.      No 

131 


132    MORAL   FORCE   of  PUBLIC   OPINION 

matter  what  fields  are  desolated,  what  fortresses  sur- 
rendered, what  armies  subdued,  or  what  provinces 
overrun.  In  the  history  of  the  year  that  has  passed  by 
us,  and  in  the  instance  of  unhappy  Spain,  we  have 
seen  the  vanity  of  all  triumphs  in  a  cause  which 
violates  the  general  sense  of  justice  of  the  civilized 
world.  It  is  nothing  that  the  troops  of  France  have 
passed  from  the  Pyrenees  to  Cadiz ;  it  is  nothing  that 
an  unhappy  and  prostrate  nation  has  fallen  before 
them ;  it  is  nothing  that  arrests,  and  confiscations,  and 
execution  sweep  away  the  little  remnant  of  national 
resistance.  There  is  an  enemy  that  still  exists  to  check 
the  glory  of  these  triumphs.  It  follows  the  conqueror 
back  to  the  very  scene  of  his  ovations;  it  calls  upon 
him  to  take  notice  that  Europe,  though  silent,  is  yet 
indignant;  it  shows  him  that  the  sceptre  of  his  victory 
is  a  barren  sceptre ;  that  it  shall  confer  neither  joy  nor 
honor,  but  shall  moulder  to  dry  ashes  in  his  grasp. 
In  the  midst  of  his  exaltation,  it  pierces  his  ear  with 
the  cry  of  injured  justice;  it  denounces  against  him 
the  indignation  of  an  enlightened  and  civilized  age;  it 
turns  to  bitterness  the  cup  of  his  rejoicing,  and  wounds 
him  with  the  sting  which  belongs  to  the  consciousness 
of  having  outraged  the  opinion  of  mankind. 


THE  INDEPENDENT  SPIRIT  OF  THE  PURI- 
TANS. From  "Speeches  by  Henry  Cabot  Lodge." 
Reprinted  with  permission.  By  HENRY  CABOT 
LODGE. 

WE  need  the  Puritan  spirit  in  certain  elements  of 
our  society.  The  number  of  men  to  whom 
inherited  fortime  brings  education  and  command  of 
time  without  effort  on  their  part  is  ever  increasing. 
Do  they  avail  themselves  fully  of  their  opportunities, 
or  are  they  too  apt  to  pass  their  days  in  a  vain  search 
for  distractions  and  a  mournful  regret  that  this  country 
is  not  some  other  country?  I  am  happy  to  believe  that 
this  is  the  very  worst  country  in  the  world  for  an  idler. 
But  to  the  man  with  health,  wealth,  education,  and 
unlimited  command  of  time, — in  other  words,  to  the 
man  who  owes  most  to  his  coimtry, — here  are  better 
opportunities  and  higher  duties  than  anywhere  else. 
I  am  not  going  to  make  the  familiar  plea  that  young 
men  of  education  and  wealth  ought  to  perform  their 
obvious  duties  as  citizens.  There  has  been  plenty  of 
sound  argument  and  good  advice  offered  on  that 
score,  and  the  proposition  is  well  understood. 

But  this  is  not  all.  In  this  question  lie  deeper  mean- 
ings. There  is  a  very  real  danger  that  the  growth  of 
wealth  here  may  end  by  producing  a  class  grounded  on 
mere  money,  and  thence  class  feeling,  a  thing  noxious, 
deadly,  and  utterly  wrong  in  this  country.  It  lies  with 
the  men  of  whom  I  have  spoken  to  strangle  this  ser- 
pent at  its  birth.  They  cannot  do  this,  however, 
unless  they  are  in  full  sympathy  with  the  American 
people  and  with  American  ideas;  and  to  this  sympathy 
they  can  never  come  by  living  in  Europe,  by  mimick- 
ing foreign  habits,  by  haunting  well-appointed  clubs, 

133 


134  INDEPENDENT  SPIRIT  of  the  PURITANS 

or  by  studying  our  public  affairs  in  the  columns  of  a 
Saturday  Review,  home-made  or  imported.  They 
must  go  to  work.  Philanthropy  and  public  affairs 
need  such  men,  because  they  can  give  what  others 
cannot  spare — time  and  money.  There  is  a  great  field 
in  politics.  Before  they  enter  it,  let  them  take  to 
themselves  not  only  the  high  and  self-respecting  spirit 
of  the  Puritan,  but  also  his  fighting  qualities,  his 
dogged  persistence,  and  another  attribute  for  which  he 
was  not  so  conspicuous, — plenty  of  good  nature.  They 
will  need  all  these  weapons,  for  it  is  no  primrose 
path.  They  must  be  prepared  to  meet  not  only 
the  usual  abuse,  but  also  much  and  serious  preju- 
dice. They  must  not  mind  defeats  and  hard  work. 
If  their  conception  of  duty  differs  from  that  of  their 
accustomed  friends  and  allies,  they  must  not  be  sur- 
prised if  some  of  those  very  friends  mete  out  to 
them  the  harshest  measure  and  deal  them  the  sharp- 
est blows. 

Yet  if  they  hold  fast  to  two  principles, — I  care  not 
under  what  party  banner  they  serve, — if  they  will 
fearlessly  do  what  in  their  own  eyes  and  before  their 
own  conscience  is  right  and  brave  and  honorable ;  if, 
like  the  Puritans,  they  will  do  the  work  which  comes 
to  their  hands  with  all  their  might,  they  will  win  the 
best  success.  They  will  win  the  regard  and  confidence 
of  large  bodies  of  their  fellow-citizens,  of  those  men 
by  whose  strong  hands  and  active  brains  the  republic  is 
ever  being  raised  higher,  and  this  regard  and  confi- 
dence are  the  best  and  most  valuable  possessions  that 
any  American  can  ever  hope  to  have.  Let  such  men, 
then,  go  into  politics,  because  they  can  give  their  time 
and   energy  to  it,   because  they  can  do   work  worth 


By  HENRY   CABOT   LODGE  135 

doing,  and,  above  all,  because  they  will  thus  become 
truer  and  better  Americans. 

I  believe,  Mr.  President,  that  I  am  coming  very 
close  to  what  is  called  "Americanism,"  but  of  "Ameri- 
canism" of  the  right  sort  we  cannot  have  too  much. 
Mere  vaporing  and  boasting  become  a  nation  as  little 
as  a  man.  But  honest,  outspoken  pride  and  faith  in 
our  countr}'  are  infinitely  better  and  more  to  be 
respected  than  the  cultivated  reserve  which  sets  it 
down  as  ill-bred  and  in  bad  taste  ever  to  refer  to  our 
country  except  by  way  of  depreciation,  criticism,  or 
general  negation.  The  Puritans  did  great  work  in  the 
world  because  they  believed  most  fervently  in  their 
cause,  their  country,  and  themselves.  It  is  the  same 
to-day.  Without  belief  of  this  sort  nothing  worth 
doing  is  ever  done. 

We  have  a  right  to  be  proud  of  our  vast  material 
success,  our  national  power  and  dignity,  our  advanc- 
ing civilization,  carrying  freedom  and  education  in  its 
train.  Most  of  all  may  we  be  proud  of  the  mag- 
nanimity displayed  by  the  American  people  at  the 
close  of  the  civil  war,  a  noble  generosity  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  nations.  But  to  count  our  wealth  and 
tell  our  numbers  and  rehearse  our  great  deeds  simply 
to  boast  of  them  is  useless  enough.  We  have  a  right 
to  do  it  only  when  we  listen  to  the  solemn  undertone 
which  brings  the  message  of  great  responsibilities, — 
responsibilities  far  greater  than  the  ordinary  political 
and  financial  issues  which  are  sure  to  find,  sooner  or 
later,  a  right  settlement.  Social  questions  are  the 
questions  of  the  present  and  the  future  for  the  Ameri- 
can people.  The  race  for  wealth  has  opened  a  broad 
gap  between  rich  and  poor.     There  are  thousands  at 


136    INDEPENDENT  SPIRIT  of  the  PURITANS 

your  gates  toiling  from  sunrise  to  sunset  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together,  and  the  struggle  is  a  hard  and 
bitter  one.  The  idle,  the  worthless,  and  the  criminal 
form  but  a  small  element  of  the  community';  but  there 
is  a  vast  body  of  honest,  God-fearing  working  men  and 
women  whose  yoke  is  not  easy  and  whose  burden  is  far 
from  light. 

The  destiny  of  the  republic  is  in  the  welfare  of  its 
working  men  and  women.  We  cannot  push  their 
troubles  and  cares  into  the  background,  and  trust  that 
all  will  come  right  in  the  end.  Let  us  look  to  it  that 
differences  and  inequalities  of  condition  do  not  widen 
into  ruin.  It  is  most  true  that  these  differences  can- 
not be  rooted  out,  but  they  can  be  modified,  and  a 
great  deal  can  be  done  to  secure  to  every  man  the 
share  of  well-being  and  happiness  to  which  his  hon- 
esty, thrift,  and  ability  entitle  him.  Legislation  can- 
not change  humanity  nor  alter  the  decrees  of  nature, 
but  it  can  help  the  solution  of  these  grave  problems. 

Practical  measures  are  plentiful  enough :  the  hours 
of  labor;  emigration  from  our  over-crowded  cities  to 
the  lands  of  the  West — economical  and  energetic 
municipal  governments;  proper  building  laws;  the 
rigid  prevention  of  adulteration  in  the  great  staples  of 
food;  wise  regulation  of  the  railroads  and  other  great 
corporations;  the  extirpation  of  race  and  class  in 
politics ;  above  all,  every  effort  to  secure  to  labor  its 
fair  and  full  share  of  the  profits  earned  by  the  combi- 
nation of  labor  and  capital.  Here  are  matters  of  great 
pith  and  moment,  more  important,  more  essential, 
more  pressing,  than  any  others.  They  must  be  met; 
they  cannot  be  shirked  or  evaded. 

The  past  is  across  the  water ;    the  future  is  here  in 


By  HENRY   CABOT   LODGE  137 

our  keeping.  We  can  do  all  that  can  be  done  to  solve 
the  social  problems  and  fulfil  the  hopes  of  mankind. 
Failure  would  be  a  disaster  un equaled  in  history.  The 
first  step  to  success  is  pride  of  country,  simple,  honest, 
frank,  and  ever  present,  and  this  is  the  Americanism 
that  I  would  have.  If  we  have  this  pride  and  faith 
we  shall  appreciate  our  mighty  responsibilities.  Then 
if  we  live  up  to  them  we  shall  keep  the  words  "an 
American  citizen"  what  they  now  are, — the  noblest 
title  any  man  can  bear. 


COPYRIGHT.     By  THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD 
MACAULAY. 

THE  advantages  arising  from  a  system  of  copy- 
right are  obvious.  It  is  desirable  that  we  should 
have  a  supply  of  good  books :  we  cannot  have  such  a 
supply  unless  men  of  letters  are  liberally  remunerated ; 
and  the  least  objectionable  way  of  remunerating  them 
is  by  ineans  of  copyright.  You  cannot  depend  for 
literar}^  instruction  and  amusement  on  the  leisure  of 
men  occupied  in  the  pursuits  of  active  life.  Such  men 
may  occasionally  produce  compositions  of  great  merit. 
But  you  must  not  look  to  such  men  for  works  which 
require  deep  meditation  and  long  research.  Works  of 
that  kind  you  can  expect  only  from  persons  who  make 
literature  the  business  of  their  lives.  Of  these  persons 
few  will  be  found  among  the  rich  and  the  noble.  The 
rich  and  the  noble  are  not  impelled  to  intellectual 
exertion  by  necessity.  They  may  be  impelled  to  in- 
tellectual exertion  by  the  desire  of  distinguishing  them- 
selves, or  by  the  desire  of  benefiting  the  community. 
But  it  is  generally  within  these  walls  that  they  seek  to 
signalize  themselves  and  to  serve  their  fellow  creatures. 
Both  their  ambition  and  their  public  spirit,  in  a  country 
like  this,  naturally  take  a  political  turn.  It  is,  then,  on 
men  whose  profession  is  literature,  and  whose  private 
means  are  not  ample,  that  you  must  rely  for  a  supply 
of  valuable  books.  Such  men  must  be  remunerated 
for  their  literary  labour.  And  there  are  only  two 
ways  in  which  they  can  be  remunerated.  One  of 
these  ways  is  patronage ;  the  other  is  copyright. 

There  have  been  times  in  which  men  of  letters 
looked,  not  to  the  public,  but  to  the  government,  or  to 
a  few  great  men,  for  the  reward  of  their  exertions.     It 

133 


^7  THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY      139 

was  thus  in  the  time  of  Maecenas  and  Pollio  at  Rome, 
of  the  Medici  at  Florence,  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  in 
France,  of  Lord  Halifax  and  Lord  Oxford  in  this 
country.  Now,  Sir,  I  well  know  that  there  are  cases 
in  which  it  is  fit  and  graceful,  nay,  in  which  it  is  a 
sacred  duty  to  reward  the  merits  or  to  relieve  the  dis- 
tresses of  men  of  genius  by  the  exercise  of  this  species 
of  liberality.  But  these  cases  are  exceptions.  I  can 
conceive  no  system  more  fatal  to  the  integrity  and 
independence  of  literary  men  than  one  under  which 
they  should  be  taught  to  look  for  their  daily  bread  to 
the  favour  of  ministers  and  nobles. 

We  have,  then,  only  one  resource  left.  We  must 
betake  ourselves  to  copyright,  be  the  inconveniences  of 
copyright  what  they  may.  Those  inconveniences,  in 
truth,  are  neither  few  nor  small.  Copyright  is 
monopoly,  and  produces  all  the  effects  which  the  gen- 
eral voice  of  mankind  attributes  to  monopoly.  My 
honourable  and  learned  friend  talks  very  contemptu- 
ously of  those  who  are  led  away  by  the  theory  that 
monopoly  makes  things  dear.  That  monopoly  makes 
things  dear  is  certainly  a  theory,  as  all  the  great  truths 
which  have  been  established  by  the  experience  of  all 
ages  and  nations,  and  which  are  taken  for  granted  in 
all  reasonings,  may  be  said  to  be  theories.  It  is  a 
theory  in  the  same  sense  in  which  it  is  a  theory  that 
day  and  night  follow  each  other,  that  lead  is  heavier 
than  water,  that  bread  nourishes,  that  arsenic  poisons, 
that  alcohol  intoxicates.  If,  as  my  honourable  and 
learned  friend  seems  to  think,  the  whole  world  is  in 
the  wrong  on  this  point,  if  the  real  effect  of  monopoly 
is  to  make  articles  good  and  cheap,  why  does  he  stop 
short  in  his  career  of  change?     Why  does  he  limit  the 


I40  COPYRIGHT 

operation  of  so  salutary  a  principle  to  sixty  years? 
Why  does  he  consent  to  anything  short  of  a  perpetuity? 

A  monopoly  of  sixty  years  produces  twice  as  much 
evil  as  a  monopoly  of  thirty  years,  and  thrice  as  much 
evil  as  a  monopoly  of  twenty  years.  But  it  is  by  no 
means  the  fact  that  a  posthumous  monopoly  of  sixty 
years  gives  to  an  author  thrice  as  much  pleasure  and 
thrice  as  strong  a  motive  as  a  posthumous  monopoly 
of  twent)^  years. 

Now,  this  is  the  sort  of  boon  which  my  honourable 
and  learned  friend  holds  out  to  authors.  Considered 
as  a  boon  to  them,  it  is  a  mere  nullity;  but,  considered 
as  an  impost  on  the  public,  it  is  no  nullity,  but  a  very 
serious  and  pernicious  reality.  I  will  take  an  example. 
Dr.  Johnson  died  fifty-six  years  ago.  If  the  law  were 
what  my  honourable  and  learned  friend  wishes  to  make 
it,  somebody  would  now  have  the  monopoly  of  Dr. 
Johnson's  works.  Who  that  somebody  would  be  it  is 
impossible  to  say;  but  we  may  venture  to  guess.  I 
guess,  then,  that  it  would  have  been  some  bookseller, 
who  was  the  assign  of  another  bookseller,  who  was 
the  grandson  of  a  third  bookseller,  who  had  bought 
the  copyright  from  Black  Frank,  the  doctor's  servant 
and  residuary  legatee,  in  1785  or  1786.  Now,  would 
the  knowledge  that  this  copyright  would  exist  in  1841 
have  been  a  source  of  gratification  to  Johnson? 
Would  it  have  stimulated  his  exertions?  Would  it 
have  once  drawn  him  out  of  his  bed  before  noon? 
Would  it  have  once  cheered  him  imder  a  fit  of  the 
spleen?  Would  it  have  induced  him  to  give  us  one 
more  allegory,  one  more  life  of  a  poet,  one  more  imita- 
tion of  Juvenal?     I  firmly  believe  not. 

But   is  the   difference   nothing  to  us?      I  can   buy 


^j  THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY     141 

Rasselas  for  sixpence;  I  might  have  had  to  give  five 
shillings  for  it.  I  can  buy  the  Dictionary,  the  entire 
genuine  Dictionaiy,  for  two  guineas,  perhaps  for  less ; 
I  might  have  had  to  give  five  or  six  guineas  for  it.  Do 
I  grudge  this  to  a  man  like  Dr.  Johnson?  Not  at  all. 
Show  me  that  the  prospect  of  this  boon  roused  him  to 
any  vigorous  effort,  or  sustained  his  spirits  under 
depressing  circumstances,  and  I  am  quite  willing  to 
pay  the  price  of  such  an  object,  heavy  as  that  price  is. 
But  what  I  do  complain  of  is  that  my  circumstances  are 
to  be  worse,  and  Johnson's  none  the  better;  that  I  am 
to  give  five  pounds  for  what  to  him  was  not  worth  a 
farthing. 

My  honourable  and  learned  friend  dwells  on  the 
claims  of  the  posterity  of  great  writers.  Undoubtedly, 
Sir,  it  would  be  very  pleasing  to  see  a  descendant  of 
Shakespeare  living  in  opulence  on  the  fruits  of  his 
great  ancestor's  genius.  A  house  maintained  in 
splendour  by  such  a  patrimony  would  be  a  more  inter- 
esting and  striking  object  than  Blenheim  is  to  us,  or 
than  Strathfieldsaye  will  be  to  our  children.  But, 
imhappily,  it  is  scarcely  possible  that,  under  any  sys- 
tem, such  a  thing  can  come  to  pass. 

If,  Sir,  I  wished  to  find  a  strong  and  perfect  illustra- 
tion of  the  effects  which  I  anticipate  from  long  copy- 
right, I  should  select, — my  honourable  and  learned 
friend  will  be  surprised, — I  should  select  the  case  of 
Milton's  granddaughter.  As  often  as  this  bill  has  been 
under  discussion,  the  fate  of  Milton's  granddaughter 
has  been  brought  forward  by  the  advocates  of 
monopoly.  My  honourable  and  learned  friend  has 
repeatedly  told  the  story  with  great  eloquence  and 
effect.     He  has  dilated  on  the  sufferings,  on  the  abject 


142  COPYRIGHT 

poverty,  of  this  ill-fated  woman,  the  last  of  an  illus- 
trious race.  He  tells  us  that,  in  the  extremity  of  her 
distress,  Garrick  gave  her  a  benefit,  that  Johnson 
wrote  a  prologue,  and  that  the  public  contributed  some 
hundreds  of  pounds.  Was  it  fit,  he  asks,  that  she 
should  receive,  in  this  eleemosynary  form,  a  small 
portion  of  what  was  in  truth  a  debt?  Why,  he  asks, 
instead  of  obtaining  a  pittance  from  charity,  did  she 
not  live  in  comfort  and  luxury  on  the  proceeds  of  the 
sale  of  her  ancestor's  works?  But,  Sir,  will  my  honour- 
able and  learned  friend  tell  me  that  this  event,  which 
he  has  so  often  and  so  pathetically  described,  was 
caused  by  the  shortness  of  the  term  of  copyright? 
Why,  at  that  time,  the  duration  of  copyright  was 
longer  than  even  he,  at  present,  proposes  to  make  it. 
The  monopoly  lasted  not  sixty  years,  but  forever.  At 
the  time  at  which  Milton's  granddaughter  asked 
charity,  Milton's  works  were  the  exclusive  property  of 
a  bookseller.  Within  a  few  months  of  the  day  on 
which  the  benefit  was  given  at  Garrick 's  theatre,  the 
holder  of  the  copyright  of  Paradise  Lost, — I  think  it 
was  Tonson, — applied  to  the  Court  of  Chancery  for  an 
injunction  against  a  bookseller,  who  had  published  a 
cheap  edition  of  the  great  epic  poem,  and  obtained  the 
injunction.  The  representation  of  Comus  was,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  in  1750;  the  injunction  in  1752. 
Here,  then,  is  a  perfect  illustration  of  the  effect  of  long 
copyright.  Milton's  works  are  the  property  of  a  single 
publisher.  Everybody  who  wants  them  must  buy 
them  at  Tonson 's  shop,  and  at  Tonson's  price.  Who- 
ever attempts  to  undersell  Tonson  is  harassed  with 
legal  proceedings.  Thousands  who  would  gladly  pos- 
sess a  copy  of  Paradise  Lost  must  forego  that  great 


i)>  THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY      143 

enjoyment.  And  what,  in  the  meantime,  is  the  situa- 
tion of  the  only  person  for  whom  we  can  suppose  that 
the  author,  protected  at  such  a  cost  to  the  public,  was 
at  all  interested?  She  is  reduced  to  utter  destitution. 
Milton's  works  are  under  a  monopoly.  Milton's 
granddaughter  is  starving.  The  reader  is  pillaged; 
but  the  writer's  family  is  not  enriched.  Society  is 
taxed  doubly.  It  has  to  give  an  exorbitant  price  for 
the  poems;  and  it  has  at  the  same  time  to  give  alms  to 
the  only  surviving  descendant  of  the  poet. 


AMERICAN  COURAGE.  Printed  for  the  first  time, 
with  •  permission.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Herbert  S. 
Stone  &  Company.     By  SHERMAN  HOAR. 

ONE  of  the  best  of  those  paintings  which  have 
made  the  name  of  Edouard  Detaille  famous  is 
called  "The  Salute  to  the  Wounded."  In  the  painting 
one  sees  a  country  road  in  France,  along  which  are 
marching  some  wounded  Prussian  prisoners  under  an 
escort  of  French  cuirassiers.  A  French  officer  of  high 
rank  and  his  staff  are  seated  upon  their  horses  by  the 
roadside,  and  are  in  the  act  of  saluting  their  wounded 
enemies,  who  are  passing  before  them.  The  picture 
always  has  had  an  attraction  for  me,  because  it  shows 
that  strong  patriotic  feeling  which  led  the  French 
painters  at  the  time  of  the  Franco-Prussian  war  to 
find,  even  in  the  incidents  of  a  struggle  fraught  with 
so  much  shame  and  disaster  for  their  nation,  oppor- 
tunities to  paint  nothing  that  did  not  put  in  evidence 
the  best  qualities  of  their  national  character. 

Here  in  the  United  States  there  is  no  lack  of  that 
admiration  for  courageous  self-sacrifice  which  the 
French  painter  has  put  so  faithfully  into  his  picture; 
but  I  sometimes  feel  that  we  fail  to  find  in  the  devo- 
tion, the  self-denial,  and  the  sacrifice  of  those  who 
have  given  themselves  to  make  and  maintain  our 
country,  all  the  inspiration  that  should  be  derived 
from  them,  or  that  would  be  got  out  of  them  by  the 
men  of  France  had  those  qualities  been  displayed  by 
their  countrymen. 

I  fear  we  undervalue  the  devotion  to  country  which 
comes  from  a  contemplation  of  what  has  been  done 
and  suffered  in  her  name.  I  feel  that  we  teach  those 
who  are  to  make  or  mar  the  future  of  this  nation  too 

144 


By  SHERMAN   HOAR  145 

much  of  what  has  been  done  elsewhere,  and  too  little 
of  what  has  been  done  here.  Courage  is  the  char- 
acteristic of  no  one  land  or  time.  The  world's  history 
is  full  of  it,  and  the  lessons  it  teaches.  American 
courage,  however,  is  of  this  nation;  it  is  ours,  and  if  the 
finest  national  spirit  is  worth  the  creating;  if  patriot- 
ism is  still  a  quality  to  be  engendered  in  our  youth ;  if 
love  of  country  is  still  to  be  a  strong  power  for  good, 
those  acts  of  devotion  and  of  heroic  personal  sacrifice 
with  which  our  history  is  filled,  are  worthy  of  earnest 
study,  of  continued  contemplation,  and  of  perpetual 
consideration. 

"Let  him,  who  will,  sing  deeds  done  well  across  the  sea, 
Here,  lovely  Land,  men  bravely  live  and  die  for  Thee." 

The  particular  example  I  desire  to  speak  about  is  of 
that  splendid  quality  of  courage  which  dares  every- 
thing not  for  self  or  country,  but  for  an  enemy.  It  is 
of  that  kind  which  is  called  into  existence  not  by 
dreams  of  glory,  or  by  love  of  land,  but  by  the  highest 
human  desire ;  the  desire  to  mitigate  suffering  in  those 
who  are  against  us. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  after  the  battle  of 
Fredericksburg,  General  Kershaw  of  the  Confederate 
army  was  sitting  in  his  quarters  when  suddenly  a 
young  South  Carolinian  named  Kirkland  entered,  and, 
after  the  usual  salutations,  said:  "General,  I  can't 
stand  this."  The  general,  thinking  the  statement  a  little 
abrupt,  asked  what  it  was  he  could  not  stand,  and  Kirk- 
land replied:  "Those  poor  fellows  out  yonder  have 
been  crying  for  water  all  day,  and  I  have  come  to  you 
to  ask  if  I  may  go  and  give  them  some."  The  "poor 
fellows"     were     Union    soldiers    who    lay    wounded 


146  AMERICAN   COURAGE 

between  the  Union  and  Confederate  lines.  To  get  to 
them  Kirkland  must  go  beyond  the  protection  of  the 
breastworks  and  expose  himself  to  a  fire  from  the 
Union  sharpshooters,  who,  so  far  during  that  day,  had 
made  the  raising  above  the  Confederate  works  of  so 
much  as  a  head  an  act  of  extreme  danger.  General 
Kershaw  at  first  refused  to  allow  Kirkland  to  go  on  his 
errand,  but  at  last,  as  thj  lad  persisted  in  his  request, 
declined  to  forbid  him,  leaving  the  responsibility  for 
action  with  the  boy  himself.  Kirkland,  in  perfect 
delight,  rushed  from  the  general's  quarters  to  the 
front,  where  he  gathered  all  the  canteens  he  could 
carry,  filled  them  with  water,  and  going  over  the 
breastworks,  started  to  give  relief  to  his  wounded 
enemies.  No  sooner  was  he  in  the  open  field  than  our 
sharpshooters,  supposing  he  was  going  to  plunder  their 
comrades,  began  to  fire  at  him.  For  some  minutes  he 
went  about  doing  good  under  circumstances  of  most 
imminent  personal  danger.  Soon,  however,  those  to 
whom  he  was  taking  the  water  recognized  the  char- 
acter of  his  undertaking.  All  over  the  field  men  sat 
up  and  called  to  him,  and  those  too  hurt  to  raise  them- 
selves, held  up  their  hands  and  beckoned  to  him. 
Soon  our  sharpshooters,  who  luckily  had  not  hit  him, 
saw  that  he  was  indeed  an  Angel  of  Mercy,  and 
stopped  their  fire,  and  two  armies  looked  with  admira- 
tion at  the  young  man's  pluck  and  loving  kindness. 
With  a  beautiful  tenderness,  Kirkland  went  about  his 
work,  giving  of  the  water  to  all,  and  here  and  there 
placing  a  knapsack  pillow  under  some  poor  wounded 
fellow's  head,  or  putting  in  a  more  comfortable  posi- 
tion some  shattered  leg  or  arm.  Then  he  went  back  to 
his  own  lines  and  the  fighting  went  on.     Tell  me  of  a 


i5j  SHERMAN    HOAR  147 

more  exalted  example  of  personal  courage  and  self- 
denial  than  that  of  that  Confederate  soldier,  or  one 
which  more  clearly  deserves  the  name  of  Christian 
fortitude.  In  that  terrible  War  of  the  Rebellion,  Kirk- 
land  gave  up  his  life  for  a  mistaken  cause  in  the  battle 
of  Chickamauga,  but  I  cannot  help  thanking  God  that, 
in  our  reunited  country,  we  are  joint  heirs  with  the 
men  from  the  South  in  the  glory  and  inspiration  that 
come  from  such  heroic  deeds  as  his. 


THE      CENTRAL     AMERICAN     TREATY.       By 
WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD. 

THE  Central  American  Treaty  was  fully  ratified  on 
the  4th  of  July,  1850,  but  took  effect  from  its 
date,  April  19,  1850.  It  recites  the  purpose  of  the 
parties,  namely,  to  consolidate  amicable  relations,  by 
setting  forth  and  fixing  their  mutual  views  and  inten- 
tions concerning  any  interoceanic  canal  that  may  be 
constructed  by  the  way  of  the  river  San  Juan  and 
either  one  or  both  of  the  Lakes  of  Nicaragua  or 
Manegua.  It  was  a  great  treaty,  sublime  in  its  con- 
ception, generous  in  its  spirit,  and  beneficent  in  its 
purposes.  The  two  rival  members  of  the  British 
family,  after  long  and  angry  alienation,  met,  not 
within  the  territory  of  either,  but  on  that  foreign  and 
narrow  isthmus  which,  while  it  unites  North  and  South 
America,  divides  the  vigorous  Atlantic  States  of 
Europe  and  America  from  the  immature  American 
States  and  the  decayed  Asiatic  nations  which  on  the 
opposite  coasts  overlook  the  broad  Pacific,  the  last 
remaining  one  of  the  barriers  which  nature  had 
erected  to  hinder  the  restoration  of  the  unity  of  the 
human  race.  How  were  they  changed  since  they  had 
last  met  in  conflict!  The  elder  had  grown  richer, 
stronger,  and  more  imperial  than  ever  before.  The 
younger  had  reached  a  higher  and  more  palmy  state 
than  any  one  of  years  so  few  had  ever  before  attained. 
They  are  no  longer  unequal,  but  each  was  dominant, 
although  in  a  separate  sphere.  The  one,  by  the  pres- 
ence of  its  mercantile  marine  and  its  armed  navy, 
kept  the  nations  of  the  East  in  their  places ;  the  other, 
by  the  mere  influence  of  its  opinions  and  its  laws,  was 
supreme  among  the  newer  nations  of  the  West.     They 

148 


By  WILLIAM   H.    SEWARD  149 

met  on  that  important  strait,  not  to  contend  together 
for  dominion  over  it,  nor  yet  to  combine  together  to 
seize  and  divide  an  exclusive  dominion  there,  but  to 
make  it  free  to  each  other,  and  equally  free  to  all 
mankind.  They  met  in  the  presence  of  the  feeble  and 
contentious  republics  which  the  influence  of  their  own 
institutions  had  perhaps  too  soon  organized  out  of  the 
ruins  of  Spanish  despotism  in  America,  not  to  over- 
throw and  subjugate  those  republics,  and  seize  the 
domains  which  they  could  not  hold,  but  to  fortify 
them,  and  guarantee  their  possessions  to  them  forever. 
It  is  not  the  present,  but  the  future,  that  stamps  upon 
human  transactions  their  true  and  lasting  character. 
Higher  than  the  fame  of  Agincourt,  of  Saratoga,  of 
Waterloo,  or  of  Buena  Vista,  shall  be  the  glory  of  that 
conjunction  of  Great  Britain  and  America  on  the 
heights  that  command  the  repose  of  the  world.  The 
truce  they  made  there  was  not  effected  without  mutual 
self-denial,  acquired  under  the  discipline  of  free  gov- 
ernment. Great  Britain  repressed  a  constitutional 
ambition  that  had  long  convulsed  the  world.  The 
United  States  subdued  onj  that  nature  prompted,  and 
the  voice  of  mankind  applauded  and  encouraged.  Let 
not  that  sacred  truce  be  broken,  and  these  friendly 
Powers  engage  in  deadly  strife  and  discord,  and 
violence  be  thus  let  loose,  to  arrest  the  progress  of  the 
nations.  Better  for  the  pride  of  each,  that  the  white 
cliffs  that  garrison  the  coast  of  England  sink  into  a 
black  and  pestilential  morass,  and  that  Niagara  lose 
forever  its  deep-toned  voice,  and  ooze  through  a 
vulgar  channel  to  the  sea,  than  that  the  great  and 
sonorous  concord  thus  established  between  them  be 
rudely  broken.     I  counsel  you.  Senators  and  statesmen 


150     The  CENTRAL   AMERICAN   TREATY 

of  the  United  States,  by  all  the  motives  that  are  born 
in  the  love  of  such  a  land  as  ours,  in  such  an  age  as 
this — I  counsel  the  Senators  and  statesmen  of  Great 
Britain,  by  all  the  motives  that  gre;;:ness  and  ambition 
like  her  own  will  not  permit  to  be  inactive — to  pre- 
serve and  maintain,  at  all  costs  and  hazards,  and 
through  all  discontents  and  jealousies,  this  great 
treaty.  Let  this  political  rainbow  stand,  stretching 
from  the  skies  downwards  on  either  side  to  the  horizon, 
a  pledge  that  the  nations  shall  not  again  be  over- 
whelmed by  any  after-coming  deluge  of  human 
passions. 


A  MONUMENT    TO    SHAKSPERE.     By  VICTOR 
HUGO. 

IN  truth,  a  monument  to  Shakspere,  cui  bono? 
The  statue  that  he  has  made  for  himself  is  worth 
more,  with  all  England  for  a  pedestal.  Shakspere 
has  no  need  of  a  pyramid;  he  has  his  work. 

What  do  you  suppose  marble  could  do  for  him? 
What  can  bronze  do  where  there  is  glory?  Malachite 
and  alabaster  are  of  no  avail;  jasper,  serpentine, 
basalt,  red  porphyry,  such  as  that  at  the  Invalides, 
granite,  Paros  and  Carrara,  are  of  no  use, — genius  is 
genius  without  them.  Even  if  all  the  stones  had  a 
part  in  it,  would  they  make  that  man  an  inch  greater? 
What  vault  shall  be  more  indestructible  than  this: 
"The  Winter's  Tale,"  "The  Tempest,"  "The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor,"  "The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona," 
"Julius  Caesar,"  "Coriolanus"?  What  monument 
more  grandiose  than  "Lear,"  more  wild  than  "The 
Merchant  of  Venice,"  more  dazzling  than  "Romeo  and 
Juliet,"  more  amazing  than  "Richard  III."?  What 
moon  could  throw  on  that  building  a  light  more  mys- 
terious than  "The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"?  What 
capital,  were  it  even  London,  could  produce  around  it 
a  rumour  so  gigantic  as  the  tumultuous  soul  of  "Mac- 
beth"? What  frame-work  of  cedar  or  of  oak  will  last 
as  long  as  "Othello"?  What  bronze  will  be  bronze  as 
much  as  "Hamlet"?  No  construction  of  lime,  of  rock, 
of  iron  and  of  cement,  is  worth  the  breath, — the  deep 
breath  of  genius,  which  is  the  breathing  of  God 
through  man.  A  head  in  which  is  an  idea, — such  is 
the  summit;  heaps  of  stone  and  brick  would  be  useless 
efforts.  What  edifice  equals  a  thought?  Babel  is  below 
Isaiah;    Cheops  is  less  than  Homer;    the  Coliseum  is 

151 


152  A    MONUMENT  to  SHAKSPERE 

inferior  to  Juvenal ;  the  Giralda  of  Seville  is  dwarfish 
by  the  side  of  Cervantes;  St.  Peter  of  Rome  does  not 
reach  to  the  ankle  of  Dante.  How  could  you  manage 
to  build  a  tower  as  high  as  that  name:  Shakspere? 

Ah,  add  something,  if  you  can,  to  a  mind! 

Suppose  a  monument.  Suppose  it  splendid;  sup- 
pose it  sublime, — a  triumphal  arch,  an  obelisk,  a  circus 
with  a  pedestal  in  the  centre,  a  cathedral.  No  people 
is  more  illustrious,  more  noble,  more  magnificent,  and 
more  magnanimous  than  the  English  people.  Couple 
these  two  ideas,  England  and  Shakspere,  and  make 
an  edifice  arise  therefrom.  Such  a  nation  celebrating 
such  a  man,  it  will  be  superb.  Imagine  the  monu- 
ment, imagine  the  inauguration.  The  Peers  are  there, 
the  Commons  give  their  adherence,  the  bishops 
officiate,  the  princes  join  the  procession,  the  queen  is 
present.  The  virtuous  woman  in  whom  the  English 
people,  royalist  as  we  know,  see  and  venerate  their 
actual  personification, — this  worthy  mother,  this  noble 
widow,  comes,  with  the  deep  respect  which  is  called 
for,  to  incline  material  m^ajesty  before  ideal  majesty; 
the  Queen  of  England  salutes  Shakspere.  The 
homage  of  Victoria  repairs  the  disdain  of  Elizabeth. 
As  for  Elizabeth,  she  is  probably  there  also,  sculptured 
somewhere  on  the  surbase,  with  Henry  VIII.,  her 
father,  and  James  I.,  her  successor, — pygmies  beneath 
the  poet.  The  cannon  booms,  the  curtain  falls,  they 
uncover  the  statue,  which  seems  to  say,  "At  length!" 
and  which  has  grown  in  the  shade  during  three  hun- 
dred years, — three  centuries;  the  growth  of  a  colossus; 
an  immensity.  All  the  York,  Cumberland,  Pitt,  and 
Peel  bronzes  have  been  made  use  of,  in  order  to  pro- 
duce this  statue;   the  public  places  have  been  disen- 


By  VICTOR    HUGO  153 

cumbered  of  a  heap  of  uncalled-for  metal-castings;  in 
this  lofty  figure  have  been  amalgamated  all  kinds  of 
Henrys  and  Edwards;  the  various  Williams  and  the 
numerous  Georges  have  been  melted,  the  Achilles  in 
Hyde  Park  has  made  the  great  toe.  This  is  fine; 
behold  Shakspere  almost  as  great  as  a  Pharaoh  or  a 
Sesostris.     Bells,  drums,  trumpets,  applause,  hurrahs. 

What  then? 

It  is  honourable  for  England,  indifferent  to  Shaks- 
pere. 

What  is  the  salutation  of  royalty,  of  aristocracy,  of 
the  army,  and  even  of  the  English  populace,  ignorant 
yet  to  this  moment,  like  nearly  all  other  nations, — 
what  is  the  salutation  of  all  these  groups  variously 
enlightened  tojiim  who  has  the  eternal  acclamation, 
with  its  reverberation,  of  all  ages  and  all  men?  What 
orison  of  the  Bishop  of  London  or  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  is  worth  the  cry  of  a  woman  before  Des- 
demona,  of  a  mother  before  Arthur,  of  a  soul  before 
Hamlet? 

And  thus,  when  universal  outcry  demands  from 
England  a  monument  to  Shakspere,  it  is  not  for  the 
sake  of  Shakspere,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  England. 

There  are  cases  in  which  the  repayment  of  a  debt  is 
of  greater  import  to  the  debtor  than  to  the  creditor. 

A  monum.ent  is  an  example.  The  lofty  head  of  a 
great  man  is  a  light.  Crowds,  like  the  waves,  require 
beacons  above  them.  It  is  good  that  the  passer-by 
should  know  that  there  are  great  men.  People  may 
not  have  time  to  read ;  they  are  forced  to  see.  People 
pass  by  that  way,  and  stumble  against  the  pedestal; 
they  are  almost  obliged  to  raise  the  head  and  to 
glance  a  little  at  the  inscription.     Men  escape  a  book; 


154  A    MONUMENT  to  SHAKSPERE 

they  cannot  escape  the  statue.  One  day,  on  the 
bridge  of  Rouen,  before  the  beautiful  statue  due  to 
David  d'Angers,  a  peasant  mounted  on  an  ass  said  to 
me:  "Do  you  know  Pierre  CorneiUe?"  "Yes,"  I 
replied.  "So  do  I,"  he  rejoined.  "And  do  you  know 
•The  Cid'?"  I  resumed.     "No,"  said  he. 

To  him,  Corneille  was  the  statue. 

This  beginning  in  the  knowledge  of  great  men  is 
necessary  to  the  people.  The  monument  incites  them 
to  know  more  of  the  man.  They  desire  to  learn  to 
read  in  order  to  know  what  this  bronze  means.  A 
statue  is  an  elbow-thrust  to  ignorance. 

There  is  then,  in  the  execution  of  such  monuments, 
popular  utility  as  well  as  national  justice. 

To  perform  what  is  useful  at  the  same  time  as  what 
is  just,  that  will  at  the  end  certainly  tempt  England. 
She  is  the  debtor  of  Shakspere.  To  leave  such  a 
debt  in  abeyance  is  not  a  good  attitude  for  the  pride  of 
a  people.  It  is  a  point  of  morality  that  nations  should 
be  good  payers  in  matters  of  gratitude.  Enthusiasm 
is  probity.  When  a  man  is  a  glory  in  the  face  of  his 
nation,  that  nation  which  does  not  perceive  the  fact 
astounds  the  human  race  around. 


THE  SPANISH-AMERICAN  WAR:  Its  Causes  and 
Its  Results.     By  JOHN  P.   CHIDWICK. 

I  KNOW  that  your  attendance  here  to-night  is  not 
given  to  me  alone,  nor  to  me  principally,  but 
rather  to  me  as  I  represent  those  men  in  whose  honor 
you  have  gathered,  and  over  whose  consecrated 
remains  it  was  my  duty  to  read  the  last,  but  consoling, 
offices  of  our  holy  religion. 

Sometimes  I  have  thought  it  rather  incongruous  that 
I,  a  priest,  should  speak  triumphantly  of  war.  I  have 
thought  that  people  might  think  it  inconsistent  with 
the  mission  of  a  priest,  which  is  to  foster  peace  among 
men  and  to  establish  it  between  man  and  God.  The 
priest  is  unworthy  of  the  Master  who  does  not  breathe 
peace  with  every  breath  of  his  nostrils.  How,  then, 
do  I  justify  my  words  glorifying  war? 

After  all  has  been  said  that  can  be  said  of  the  horrors 
of  war,  it  still  remains  that  there  are  certain  circum- 
stances under  which  war  is  not  only  justifiable,  but  ab- 
solutely necessary.  There  are  times  when  a  people  have 
been  crushed  in  all  of  the  rights  of  a  nation  which  God 
has  given  to  them;  when  all  measures  of  redress  for 
their  wrongs  have  been  spurned  and  contemned. 
Beyond  that  they  see  the  gleam  of  freedom.  Then  it 
is  that  they  are  prompted  to  bare  their  breasts  to  the 
lightning  and  place  their  reliance,  through  God,  in  the 
argument  of  force.  No  nation  can  see  its  people  bow 
their  heads  in  shame  before  the  rest  of  the  people  of 
the  world.  The  nation's  honor  is  the  nation's  soul:  it 
is  the  nation's  spirit  and  must  be  kept  alive. 

In  that  war  through  which  we  have  just  passed  did 
we  not  have  the  freedom  of  an  oppressed  nation  at 
stake?     Did  we  not  have  the  honor  of  the  flag  and  the 

155 


iS6  The  SPANISH-AMERICAN    WAR 

blood  of  the  martyr  who  had  been  doing  his  duty  for 
God  and  humanity?  But  not  until  divine  providence 
took  the  course  of  events  into  its  own  hands,  and 
brought  upon  us  that  calamity,  that  sacrifice,  through 
whose  lurid  light  we  could  read  plainly  the  lesson  of 
unhappy  Cuba — not  until  then  did  we  rise  up  in  might 
to  vindicate  them,  and  to  assert  our  honor  before  God 
and  the  world. 

It  was  not  idle  curiosity  that  brought  this  audience 
here.  It  was  fond  recollection.  And  thus  it  is  that  I 
am  willing  to  speak  to  audiences,  not  to  satisfy  curi- 
osity, but  a  living  love.  I  thank  God  that  our  people 
preserve  this  love  in  their  hearts  now,  after  a  year  of 
great  history  in  the  land ! 

Notwithstanding  her  admiration,  her  joy  over  unex- 
pected results ;  notwithstanding  her  sorrow  over  the  sac- 
rifices that  have  been  demanded,  thank  God,  America 
has  not  forgotten  the  early  heroes  of  our  cause, 
whose  deaths  she  well  regards  as  the  first  chapter  in 
the  Spanish- American  war!  In  their  name,  and  with 
all  my  heart,  I  thank  you  for  this  remembrance,  and 
pray  that  it  will  sink  deeper  into  your  hearts  and  the 
hearts  of  all  our  people ! 

First,  why  was  the  Maine  sent  to  Havana?  Our 
people  had  suffered  insult  and  oppression  for  three 
years,  400,000  people  had  died  under  Spanish  nile. 
The  hatred  of  American  people  was  deep  in  the  breasts 
of  the  Spaniards.  Were  we  going  to  fly  and  admit 
ourselves  cowards?  No,  thank  God.  We  had  a  nation 
that  responded  to  our  consul  general's  request.  That 
was  why  the  Maine  was  sent  to  protect  the  Americans, 
and  if  we  did  lose  her  and  the  poor  men  that  went 
down  with  her,  we  maintained  our  honor.     I  have  no 


By  JOHN   P.    CHIDWICK  157 

patience  with  those  people  who  say  we  forced  the  war. 
Other  nations  would  have  sent  their  ships  to  Havana 
at  once,  and  demanded  satisfaction  at  the  muzzle  of 
their  guns.  We  are  not  a  nation  of  murderers.  Our 
principles  were  not  those  of  greed,  but  those  of  God. 
It  has  been  said  that  we  are  not  a  united  nation;  that 
because  we  have  different  faiths,  and  come  from  differ- 
ent races,  we  do  not  stand  together.  When,  however, 
the  word  came,  they  found  us  shoulder  to  shoulder 
and  back  to  back,  and  there  was  no  one  found  wanting. 
Our  patriotism  had  been  slumbering  for  thirty  years, 
and  it  awoke  like  a  volcano. 

Cursed  be  the  miscreant  who  dares  to  stain  the  stars 
and  stripes  of  our  flag  with  religious  or  political  ani- 
mosity. Let  not  sectarian  jealousy  find  place  in  the 
breast  of  any  one.  Let  us  keep  together  as  we  always 
have,  Americans  every  one,  and  ready  at  all  times  to 
uphold  the  national  honor.  Already  we  see  other 
nations  looking  to  us  for  aid.  We  see  one  nation 
stretching  out  its  hand  to  us  for  an  alliance,  not  an 
alliance  of  the  stronger  to  the  weaker,  but  as  equal  to 
equal. 


THE    CONSOLATIONS   OF   LITERATURE.      By 
RUFUS  CHOATE. 

I  COME  to  a^ld  the  final  reason  why  the  working 
man — by  whom  I  mean  the  whole  brotherhood  of 
industry — should  set  on  mental  culture  and  that  knowl- 
edge which  is  wisdom  a  value  so  high — only  not 
supreme — subordinate  alone  to  the  exercises  and  hopes 
of  religion  itself.  And  that  is,  that  therein  he  shall  so 
surely  find  rest  from  labor;  succor  under  its  burdens; 
forgetfulness  of  its  cares ;  composure  in  its  annoyances. 
It  is  not  always  that  the  busy  day  is  followed  by  the 
peaceful  night  It  is  not  always  that  fatigue  wins 
sleep.  Often  some  vexation  outside  of  the  toil  that  has 
exhausted  the  frame;  some  loss  in  a  bargain;  some 
loss  by  an  insolvency ;  some  unforeseen  rise  or  fall  of 
prices;  some  triumph  of  a  mean  or  fraudulent  com- 
petitor; "the  law's  delay,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
the  insolence  of  office,  or  some  one  of  the  spurns  that 
patient  merit  from  the  unworthy  takes" — some  self- 
reproach,  perhaps — follow  you  within  the  door;  chill 
the  fireside ;  sow  the  pillow  with  thorns ;  and  the  dark 
care  is  lost  in  the  last  waking  thought,  and  haunts  the 
vivid  dream.  Happy,  then,  is  he  who  has  laid  up  in 
youth,  and  has  held  fast  in  all  fortune,  a  genuine  and 
passionate  love  of  reading.  True  balm  of  hurt  minds; 
of  surer  and  more  healthful  charm  than  "poppy  or 
mandragora,  or  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world" — 
by  that  single  taste,  by  that  single  capacity,  he  may 
bound  in  a  moment  into  the  still  regions  of  delightful 
studies,  and  be  at  rest.  He  recalls  the  annoyance  that 
pursues  him ;  reflects  that  he  has  done  all  that  might 
become  a  man  to  avoid  or  bear  it;  he  indulges  in  one 
good  long,  human  sigh,  picks  up  the  volume  where  the 

i$8 


By  RUFUS   CHOATE  159 

mark  kept  his  place,  and  in  about  the  same  time  that 
it  takes  the  Mohammedan  in  the  Spectator  to  put  his 
head  in  the  bucket  of  water  and  raise  it  out,  he  finds 
himself  exploring  the  arrow-marked  ruins  of  Nineveh 
with  Layard;  or  worshipping  at  the  spring-head  of  the 
stupendous  Missouri  with  Clarke  and  Lewis;  or  watch- 
ing with  Columbus  for  the  sublime  moment  of  the  ris- 
ing of  the  curtain  from  before  the  great  mystery  of  the 
sea;  or  looking  reverentially  on  while  Socrates— the 
discourse  of  immortality  ended — refuses  the  offer  of 
escape,  and  takes  in  his  hand  the  poison,  to  die  in 
obedience  to  the  unrighteous  sentence  of  the  law ;  or, 
perhaps,  it  is  in  the  contemplation  of  some  vast  spec- 
tacle or  phenomenon  of  Nature  that  he  has  found  his 
quick  peace— the  renewed  exploration  of  one  of  her 
great  laws — or  some  glimpse  opened  by  the  pencil  of 
St.  Pierre,  or  Humboldt,  or  Chateaubriand,  or  Wilson, 
of  the  "blessedness  and  glory  of  her  own  deep,  calm, 
and  mighty  existence." 

Let  the  case  of  a  busy  lawyer  testify  to  the  priceless 
value  of  the  love  of  reading.  He  comes  home,  his 
temples  throbbing,  his  nerves  shattered,  from  a  trial 
of  a  week ;  surprised  and  alarmed  by  the  charge  of  the 
judge,  and  pale  with  anxiety  about  the  verdict  of  the 
next  morning,  not  at  all  satisfied  with  what  he  has 
done  himself,  though  he  does  not  yet  see  how  he  could 
improve  it;  recalling  with  dread  and  self-disparage- 
ment, if  not  with  envy,  the  brilliant  effort  of  his 
antagonist,  and  tormenting  himself  with  the  vain  wish 
that  he  could  have  replied  to  it — and  altogether  a  very 
miserable  subject,  and  in  as  unfavorable  a  condition  to 
accept  comfort  from  wife  and  children  as  poor  Chris- 
tian in  the  first  three  pages  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


i6o    The  CONSOLATIONS  of  LITERATURE 

With  a  superhuman  effort  he  opens  his  book,  and  in  a 
twinkling  of  an  eye  he  is  looking  into  the  full  "orb  of 
Homeric  or  Miltonic  song,"  or  he  stands  in  the  crowd 
breathless,  yet  swayed  as  forests  or  the  sea  by  winds — 
hearing  and  to  judge  the  Pleadings  for  the  Crown ;  or 
the  philosophy  which  soothed  Cicero  or  Boethius  in 
their  afflictions,  in  exile,  in  prison,  and  the  contem- 
plation of  death,  breathes  over  his  petty  cares  like  the 
sweet  south ;  or  Pope  or  Horace  laugh  him  into  good 
humor,  or  he  walks  with  -^neas  and  the  Sibyl  in  the 
mild  light  of  the  world  of  the  laurelled  dead — and  the 
court-house  is  as  completely  forgotten  as  the  dream  of 
a  preadamite  life.  Well  may  he  prize  that  endeared 
charm,  so  effectual  and  safe,  without  which  the  brain 
had  long  ago  been  chilled  by  paralysis,  or  set  on  fire 
by  insanity! 

To  these  uses,  and  these  enjoyments;  to  mental  cul- 
ture, and  knowledge,  and  morality — the  guide,  the 
grace,  the  solace  of  labor  on  all  its  fields,  we  dedicate 
this  charity!  May  it  bless  you  in  all  your  successions; 
and  may  the  admirable  giver,  George  Peabody,  survive 
to  see  that  the  debt  which  he  recognizes  to  the  future 
is  completely  discharged;  survive  to  enjoy  in  the 
gratitude,  and  love,  and  honor  of  this  generation,  the 
honor,  and  love,  and  gratitude  with  which  tlie  latest 
will  assuredly  cherish  his  name,  and  partake  and  trans- 
mit his  benefaction, 


THE     FORCE     BILL.       By    JOHN     CALDWELL 
CALHOUN. 

IT  is  said  that  the  bill  ought  to  pass,  because  the 
law  must  be  enforced.  The  law  must  be  enforced ! 
The  imperial  edict  must  be  executed!  It  is  under  such 
sophistry,  couched  in  general  terms,  without  looking 
to  the  limitations  which  must  ever  exist  in  the  prac- 
tical exercise  of  power,  that  the  most  cruel  and 
despotic  acts  ever  have  been  covered.  It  was  such 
sophistry  as  this  that  cast  Daniel  into  the  lion's  den, 
and  the  three  Innocents  into  the  fiery  furnace.  Under 
the  same  sophistry  the  bloody  edicts  of  Nero  and 
Caligula  were  executed.  The  law  must  be  enforced. 
Yes,  the  act  imposing  the  "tea-tax  must  be  executed." 
This  was  the  very  argument  which  impelled  Lord 
North  and  his  administration  to  that  mad  career  which 
for  ever  separated  us  from  the  British  crown.  Under 
a  similar  sophistry,  that  "religion  must  be  protected," 
how  many  massacres  have  been  perpetrated?  and  how 
many  martyrs  have  been  tied  to  the  stake?  What! 
acting  on  this  vague  abstraction,  are  you  prepared  to 
enforce  a  law  without  considering  whether  it  be  just  or 
unjust,  constitutional  or  unconstitutional?  Will  you 
collect  money  when  it  is  acknowledged  that  it  is  not 
wanted?  He  who  earns  the  money,  who  digs  it  from 
the  earth  with  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  has  a  just  title 
to  it  against  the  universe.  No  one  has  a  right  to  touch 
it  without  his  consent  except  his  government,  and  this 
only  to  the  extent  of  its  legitimate  wants;  to  take  more 
is  robbery,  and  you  propose  by  this  bill  to  enforce 
robbery  by  murder.  Yes:  to  this  result  j^ou  must 
come,  by  this  miserable  sophistry,  this  vague  abstrac- 
tion of  enforcing  the  law,  without  a  regard  to  the  fact 

J  61 


i62  The  FORCE    BILL 

whether  the  law  be  just  or  unjust,  constitutional  or 
unconstitutional. 

In  the  same  spirit  we  are  told  that  the  Union  must 
be  preserved,  without  regard  to  the  means.  And  how 
is  it  proposed  to  preserve  the  Union?  By  force! 
Does  any  man  in  his  senses  believe  that  this  beautiful 
structure — this  harmonious  aggregate  of  States,  pro- 
duced by  the  joint  consent  of  all — can  be  preserved  by 
force?  Its  very  introduction  will  be  certain  destruc- 
tion to  this  Federal  Union.  No,  no.  You  cannot  keep 
the  States  united  in  their  constitutional  and  federal 
bonds  by  force.  Force  may,  indeed,  hold  the  parts 
together,  but  such  union  would  be  the  bond  between 
master  and  slave — a  union  of  exaction  on  one  side  and 
of  unqualified  obedience  on  the  other.  That  obedience 
which,  we  are  told  by  the  Senator  from  Pennsylvania, 
is  the  Union!  Yes,  exaction  on  the  side  of  the  master; 
for  this  very  bill  is  intended  to  collect  what  can  be  no 
longer  called  taxes — the  voluntary  contribution  of  a 
free  people — but  tribute — tribute  to  be  collected  under 
the  mouths  of  the  cannon!  Your  custom-house  is 
already  transferred  to  a  garrison,  and  that  garrison 
with  its  batteries  turned,  not  against  the  enemy  of 
your  country,  but  on  subjects  (I  will  not  say  citizens), 
on  whom  you  propose  to  levy  contributions.  Has 
reason  fled  from  our  borders?  Have  we  ceased  to 
reflect?  It  is  madness  to  suppose  that  the  Union  can 
be  preserved  by  force.  I  tell  you  plainly  that  the 
bill,  should  it  pass,  cannot  be  enforced.  It  will  prove 
only  a  blot  upon  your  statute-book,  a  reproach  to  the 
year,  and  a  disgrace  to  the  American  Senate.  I  repeat, 
it  will  not  be  executed;  it  will  rouse  the  dormant 
spirit  of  the  people,  and  open  their  eyes  to  the  ap- 


By  JOHN   CALDWELL   CALHOUN         163 

proach  of  despotism.  The  country  has  sunk  into 
avarice  and  political  corruption,  from  which  nothing 
can  arouse  it  but  some  measure,  on  the  part  of  the 
Government,  of  folly  and  madness,  such  as  that  now 
under  consideration. 


SOUTH    CAROLINA    AND     MASSACHUSETTS. 
By  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

THE  eulogium  pronounced  on  the  character  of  the 
State  of  South  Carolina,  by  the  honorable 
gentleman,  for  her  Revolutionary  and  other  merits, 
meets  my  hearty  concurrence.  I  shall  not  acknowl- 
edge that  the  honorable  member  goes  before  me,  in 
regard  for  whatever  of  distinguished  talent  or  distin- 
guished character  South  Carolina  has  produced.  I 
claim  part  of  the  honor;  I  partake  in  the  pride  of  her 
great  name.  I  claim  them  for  countrymen,  one  and 
all.  The  Laurenses,  the  Rutledges,  the  Pinckneys, 
the  Sumters,  the  Marions, — Americans,  all, — whose 
fame  is  no  more  to  be  hemmed  in  by  State  lines,  than 
their  talents  and  patriotism  were  capable  of  being  cir- 
cumscribed within  the  same  narrow  limits. 

In  their  day  and  generation,  they  served  and  hon- 
ored the  country,  and  the  whole  country;  and  their 
renown  is  of  the  treasures  of  the  whole  country.  Him 
whose  honored  name  the  gentleman  himself  bears, — 
does  he  suppose  me  less  capable  of  gratitude  for  his 
patriotism,  or  sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  than  if  his 
eyes  had  first  opened  upon  the  light  in  Massachusetts, 
instead  of  South  Carolina?  Sir,  does  he  suppose  it  is 
in  his  power  to  exhibit  a  Carolina  name  so  bright  as  to 
produce  envy  in  my  bosom?  No,  sir;  increased  grati- 
fication and  delight,  rather.  Sir,  I  thank  God,  that,  if 
I  am  gifted  with  little  of  the  spirit  which  is  said  to  be 
able  to  raise  mortals  to  the  skies,  I  have  yet  none,  as  I 
trust,  of  that  other  spirit  which  would  drag  angels  down. 

When  I  shall  be  found,  sir,  in  my  place  here  in  the 
Senate,  or  elsewhere,  to  sneer  at  public  merit,  because 
it  happened  to  spring  up  beyond  the  little  limits  of  my 

164 


By  DANIEL   WEBSTER  165 

own  State  or  neighborhood;  when  I  refuse,  for  any 
such  cause,  or  for  any  cause,  the  homage  due  to  Ameri- 
can talent,  to  elevated  patriotism,  to  sincere  devotion  to 
liberty  and  the  country;  or,  if  I  see  an  uncommon 
endowment  of  Heaven ;  if  I  see  extraordinary  capacity 
and  virtue  in  any  son  of  the  South ;  and  if,  moved  by 
local  prejudice,  or  gangrened  by  State  jealousy,  I  get  up 
here  to  abate  the  tithe  of  a  hair  from  his  just  character 
and  just  fame, — may  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of 
my  mouth ! 

Sir,  let  me  recur  to  pleasing  recollections;  let  me 
indulge  in  refreshing  remembrances  of  the  past:  let 
me  remind  you  that,  in  early  times,  no  States  cherished 
greater  harmony,  both  of  principle  and  feeling,  than 
Massachusetts  and  South  Carolina.  Would  to  God  that 
harmony  might  again  return !  Shoulder  to  shoulder, 
they  went  through  the  Revolution :  hand  in  hand,  they 
stood  round  the  administration  of  Washington,  and  felt 
his  own  great  arm  lean  on  them  for  support.  Unkind 
feeling,  if  it  exist,  alienation  and  distrust,  are  the 
growth — unnatural  to  such  soils — of  false  principles 
since  sown.  They  are  weeds,  the  seeds  of  which  that 
same  great  arm  never  scattered. 

Mr.  President,  I  shall  enter  on  no  encomium  upon 
Massachusetts:  she  needs  none.  There  she  is, — 
behold  her,  and  judge  for  yourselves.  There  is  her 
history, — the  world  knows  it  by  heart.  The  past,  at 
least,  is  secure.  There  is  Boston,  and  Concord,  and 
Lexington,  and  Bunker  Hill,— and  there  they  will 
remain  forever.  The  bones  of  her  sons,  fallen  in  the 
great  struggle  for  independence,  now  lie  mingled  with 
the  soil  of  every  State  from  New  England  to  Georgia; 
and  there  they  will  lie  forever. 


i66  SOUTH  CAROLINA  a7id  MASSACHUSETTS 

And,  sir,  where  American  liberty  raised  its  first 
voice,  and  where  its  youth  was  nurtured  and  sustained, 
there  it  still  lives  in  the  strength  of  its  manhood,  and 
full  of  its  original  spirit.  If  discord  and  disunion  shall 
wound  it ;  if  party  strife  and  blind  ambition  shall  hawk 
at  and  tear  it;  if  folly  and  madness,  if  uneasiness 
under  salutary  and  necessary  restraints,  shall  succeed 
to  separate  it  from  that  Union  by  which  alone  its 
existence  is  made  sure, — it  will  stand,  in  the  end,  by 
the  side  of  that  cradle  in  which  its  infancy  was  rocked ; 
it  will  stretch  forth  its  arm,  with  whatever  of  vigor  it 
may  retain,  over  the  friends  who  gather  round  it;  and 
it  will  fall,  at  last,  if  fall  it  must,  amidst  the  proudest 
monuments  of  its  own  glory,  on  the  very  spot  of  its 
origin! 


AT  THE    UNVEILING  OF  THE   GRAY    MEMO- 
RIAL.    By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

I  HAVE  been  asked  to  say  a  few  words,  but  they 
must  be  very  few,  as  the  train  is  waiting  for  me 
that  takes  me  back  to  keep  an  engagement.  Mr. 
Gosse  has  told  you  he  has  been  present  at  many 
memorial  unveilings,  and  the  newspapers  inform  me 
that  I  also  have  been  present  at  the  unveiling  of  per- 
haps too  many.  But  never  have  I  been  present  on  any 
occasion  with  more  pleasure  than  on  this.  You  have 
now,  in  the  words  which  Lord  Houghton  quoted,  and 
which  I  would  extend  in  a  wider  sense  than  he  did,  a 
beautiful  memorial  to  Gray  in  permanent  form.  We 
also,  thanks  to  Mr.  Gosse,  possess  a  photograph  of  this 
memorial  in  permanent  form.  But  we  have  in  our 
hearts  and  memories,  I  think,  a  memorial  to  the  man 
quite  as  true  and  quite  as  permanent — that  is,  per- 
manent for  us.  Very  few  words  are  fitting  on  an 
occasion  which  commemorates  the  one  of  the  English 
poets  who  has  written  less  and  pleased  more  perhaps 
than  any  other.  There  is  a  certain  appropriateness  in 
my  speaking  here  to-day.  I  come  here  to  speak 
simply  as  the  representative  of  several  countrymen  and 
countrywomen  of  mine  who  have  renewed  that  affirma- 
tion, which  I  like  always  to  renew,  of  the  unity  of  our 
English  race  by  giving  something  more  solid  than 
words  in  commemoration  of  the  poet  they  loved.  And 
I  think  there  is  another  claim  which  I  perhaps  have 
for  speaking  here  to-day,  and  that  is  that  the  most 
picturesque  anecdote  relative  to  the  life  of  Gray — per- 
haps the  most  picturesque  related  of  the  life  of  any 
poet,  certainly  of  any  English  poet,  belongs  to  the 
Western    Hemisphere;    I  mean    the    anecdote    which 

167 


i68     UNVEILING   of  the  GRAY  MEMORIAL 

connects  the  name  of  Wolfe  with  that  of  Gray.  Noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  picturesque  than  the  sur- 
roundings of  that  saying  of  Wolfe's — of  that  English 
hero — and  nothing  could  have  been  more  momentous 
than  the  action  and  the  consequence  that  followed 
from  it,  and  which  made  the  United  States,  which  I 
have  lately  represented,  possible.  That,  I  think,  gives 
me  a  certain  right  also  to  speak  here. 

I  know  that  sometimes  criticisms  are  made  upon 
Gray.  I  think  I  have  often  heard  him  called  by  some 
of  our  juniors  "commonplace."  Upon  my  word,  I 
think  it  a  compliment.  I  think  it  shows  a  certain 
generality  of  application  in  what  Gray  has  done,  for  if 
there  is  one  thing  more  than  another — I  say  this  to  the 
young  men  whom  I  see  seated  around  both  sides  of  the 
hall — which  insures  the  lead  in  life,  it  is  the  common- 
place. I  have  to  measure  my  poets,  my  authors,  by 
their  lasting  power,  and  I  find  Gray  has  a  great  deal 
of  it.  He  not  only  pleases  my  youth  and  my  age,  but 
he  pleases  other  people's  youth  and  age;  and  I  cannot 
help  thinking  this  is  a  proof  that  he  touches  on  human 
nature  at  a  great  many  periods  and  at  a  great  many 
levels,  and,  perhaps,  that  is  as  high  a  compliment  as 
can  be  paid  to  the  poet.  There  is,  I  admit,  a  certain 
commonplaceness  of  sentiment  in  his  most  famous 
poem,  but  I  think  there  is  also  a  certain  common- 
placeness of  sentiment  in  some  verses  that  have 
been  famous  for  more  than  3,000  years.  I  think 
that  when  Homer  saw  somebody  smiling  through  her 
tears  he  said,  on  the  whole,  a  commonplace  thing,  but 
it  touched  our  feelings  for  a  great  many  centuries;  and 
I  think  that  in  the  "Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard" 
Gray  has  expressed  a  simple  sentiment,  and  as  long  as 


By  JAMES   RUSSELL    LOWELL  169 

there  are  young  men  and  middle-aged  men,  Gray's 
poem  will  continue  to  be  read  and  loved  as  in  the  days 
when  it  was  written.  There  is  a  Spanish  proverb  which 
rebukes  those  people  who  ask  something  better  than 
bread.  Let  those  who  ask  for  something  better  get 
something  better  than  what  Gray  produced.  For  my 
own  part,  I  ask  nothing  better.  He  was,  perhaps,  the 
greatest  artist  in  words  that  English  literature  has 
possessed.  In  conclusion,  let  me  say  one  word  for 
myself.  This  will  probably  be  the  last  occasion  on 
which  I  shall  have  the  opportunity  of  addressing 
Englishmen  in  public;  and  I  wish  to  express  my 
heartfelt  gratitude  for  the  kindness  which  has  sur- 
rounded me  both  in  my  official  and  private  life,  and  to 
say  that  while  I  came  here  as  a  far-off  cousin,  I  feel 
you  are  sending  me  away  as  something  like  a  brother. 


THE  MONROE    DOCTRINE.      By  LEWIS    CASS. 

MR.  PRESIDENT,  we  had  a  short  discussion  the 
other  day  upon  the  subject  of  the  oft-debated 
Monroe  Doctrine.  I  propose  very  briefly  to  re-exam- 
ine it;  and  I  shall  do  so  with  the  more  confidence, 
because  I  have  just  refreshed  my  recollection  by  a 
conversation  with  the  person,  who,  of  all  living  men, 
has  the  most  right  to  speak  authoritatively  upon  this 
matter.  I  refer  to  Mr.  Rush,  whose  name  is  well  and 
favorably  known  to  the  whole  country,  which  he  has 
served  with  honor  and  ability  in  various  high  capaci- 
ties, at  home  and  abroad,  and  who  was  our  Minister  in 
England,  when  this  doctrine  was  first  broached. 

What,  sir,  is  the  Monroe  Doctrine?  Let  Mr. 
Monroe  answer  the  question.  In  his  annual  message 
to  Congress,  in  1823,  he  announced  his  views  upon  two 
important  subjects.  They  are  as  follows,  and  are  to 
be  found  in  different  parts  of  the  message: 

"i.  That  it  was  impossible  for  the  Allied  Powers  to 
extend  their  political  system  to  any  part  of  America, 
without  endangering  our  peace  and  happiness,  and 
equally  impossible,  therefore,  that  we  should  behold 
such  interference  with  indifference. 

"2.  That  the  occasion  had  been  judged  proper  for 
asserting,  as  a  principle,  in  which  the  rights  and 
interests  of  the  United  States  were  involved,  that  the 
American  continents,  by  the  free  and  independent  con- 
dition which  they  had  assumed  and  maintained,  were 
henceforth  not  to  be  considered  as  subjects  for  future 
colonization  by  any  European  Power." 

The  honorable  Senator  from  New  Hampshire  (Mr. 
Hale),  in  the  remarks  he  made  upon  this  subject  a  few 
days   ago,   referred  to    the    views    expressed  by  Mr. 

170 


By  LEWIS   CASS    .  171 

Calhoun,  in  the  Senate,  in  relation  to  this  doctrine,  and 
maintained  that  no  general  principle  of  action  was  laid 
down  by  Mr.  Monroe,  but  that  his  efforts  were  limited 
to  the  preservation  of  the  independent  States  of  Span- 
ish orig-in  from  the  grasp  of  the  Holy  Alliance,  as  the 
union  of  various  despotic  powers  to  put  down  popular 
demonstrations  was  called.  The  unholy  alliance  would 
have  been  its  proper  designation. 

There  is  no  doubt,  sir,  but  that  the  threatening 
aspect  of  affairs  in  relation  to  these  Spanish  States, 
and  the  known  project  to  bring  them  under  the  domin- 
ion of  some  Bourbon  prince,  was  the  prominent  cause 
which  led  Mr.  Monroe  to  interpose  upon  that  occasion. 
Circumstances  do  not  create  principles.  They  call 
them  into  action.  Circumstances  occurred  which 
directed  the  attention  of  the  American  Government  to 
an  approaching  crisis,  and  it  then  investigated,  not 
only  its  line  of  action,  but  the  ground  upon  which  that 
action  could  be  justified,  and  the  result  was  this  well- 
known  declaration.  In  our  position  it  is  one  of  the 
great  elements  of  our  strength,  and  of  our  means  of 
self-defense.  It  is  perpetual,  as  well  in  its  obligations 
as  in  the  security  it  brings  with  it.  It  interfered  with 
no  existing  rights,  but  looked  to  the  future,  with  a 
view  to  guard  that  from  danger. 

Mr.  Monroe  promulgated  what  is  known  through 
the  world  as  his  doctrine — the  American  doctrine  of 
American  self-preservation.  It  is  now  sought  to 
degrade  it  to  a  mere  temporary  expedient,  living  while 
the  Holy  Alliance  lived,  and  dying  with  the  death  of 
that  unprincipled  league.  Now,  sir,  Mr.  Monroe  is 
the  best  expositor  of  his  own  views.  Hear  him.  In 
his  annual  message  of  1824,  when  the  danger  from 


172  The  MONROE    DOCTRINE 

the  Holy  Alliance  had  passed  away,  he  said,  renewing 
his  recommendation,  that  we  had  no  concern  with 
European  wars,  but  "with  regard  to  our  neighbors  our 
situation  is  different.  It  is  impossible  for  the  Euro- 
pean Governments  to  interfere  in  their  concerns,  espe- 
cially in  those  alluded  to,  which  are  vital,  without 
affecting  us." 

But,  sir,  we  have  another  witness  to  introduce, 
whom  no  American  can  hear  without  respect  and 
gratitude,  the  writer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence, the  patriarch  of  the  Democratic  faith,  the  states- 
man and  patriot,  second  only  to  Washington  in  the 
estimation  of  his  countrymen.  Mr.  Monroe,  during 
his  whole  Presidency,  was  in  the  habit  of  the  most  con- 
fidential communication  with  Mr.  Jefferson  upon  all 
questions  of  serious  concern.  He  consulted  him  upon 
this  subject,  and  here  follows  the  answer,  dated 
October  24,  1823.  Never  were  sentiments  sounder  in 
themselves,  or  more  beautifully  expressed: 

"The  question  presented  by  the  letters  you  have 
sent  me  is  the  most  momentous  which  has  ever  been 
offered  to  my  contemplation  since  that  of  Independ- 
ence. That  made  us  a  nation ;  this  sets  our  compass, 
and  points  the  course  which  we  are  to  steer  through 
the  ocean  of  time.  And  never  could  we  embark  on  it 
under  circumstances  more  auspicious.  Our  first  and 
fundamental  maxim  should  be  never  to  entangle  our- 
selves in  the  broils  of  Europe.  Our  second,  never  to 
suffer  Europe  to  intermeddle  with  cis- Atlantic  affairs. 
America,  North  and  South,  has  a  set  of  interests  dis- 
tinct from  those  of  Europe,  and  peculiarly  her  OAvn. 
She  should,  therefore,  have  a  system  of  her  own, 
separate  and  apart  from  that  of  Europe;    the  last  is 


By  LEWLS   CASS  173 

laboring  to  become  the  domicile  of  despotism — our 
endeavor  should  surely  be  to  make  our  hemisphere 
that  of  freedom." 

And  now  there  are  those  who  would  mar  the  mag- 
nificent figure  of  Mr.  Jefferson  by  converting  his  ocean 
of  time  into  a  mere  duck  pond,  and  his  fundamental 
maxim,  never  "to  suffer  Europe  to  intermeddle  with 
cis- Atlantic  affairs,"  into  the  historical  recollection  of  a 
temporary  project  to  save  our  neighboring  States  from 
a  blow  aimed  at  the  time  at  their  safety  and  all  danger 
from  which  passed  away  as  suddenly  as  it  had  arisen. 


MY  RELIGION.  From  "My  Religion."  Copyright, 
1885,  by  Thomas  T.  Crowell  &  Company.  Reprinted 
with  permission.     By  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI. 

I  BELIEVE  now  that  my  true  welfare,  and  that  of 
others,  is  possible  only  when  I  labor  not  for  myself 
but  for  another,  and  that  I  must  not  refuse  to  labor  for 
another,  but  to  give  with  joy  that  of  which  he  has 
need.  This  faith  has  changed  my  estimate  of  what  is 
right  and  important,  and  wrong  and  despicable.  What 
once  seemed  to  me  right  and  important — riches,  pro- 
prietary rights,  the  point  of  honor,  the  maintenance  of 
personal  dignity  and  personal  privileges — have  now 
become  to  me  wrong  and  despicable.  Labor  for 
others,  poverty,  humility,  the  renunciation  of  property 
and  of  personal  privileges,  have  become  in  my  eyes 
right  and  important. 

When,  now,  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness,  I  yield  to 
the  impulse  to  resort  to  violence,  for  the  defence  of  my 
person  or  property,  or  of  the  persons  or  property  of 
others,  I  can  no  longer  deliberately  make  use  of  this 
snare  for  my  own  destruction  and  the  destruction  of 
others.  I  can  no  longer  acquire  property.  I  can  no 
longer  resort  to  force  in  any  form  for  my  own  defence 
or  the  defence  of  another.  I  can  no  longer  co-operate 
with  any  power  whose  object  is  the  defence  of  men 
and  their  property  by  violence.  I  can  no  longer  act  in 
a  judicial  capacity,  or  clothe  myself  with  any  authority, 
or  take  part  in  the  exercise  of  any  jurisdiction  what- 
ever. I  can  no  longer  encourage  others  in  the  support 
of  tribunals,  or  in  the  exercise  of  authoritative  admin- 
istration. 

I  know  now  that  the  distinction  I  once  made  between 
my  own  people  and  those  of  other  countries  is  destruc- 

174 


By  COUNT   LEO   TOLSTOI  175 

tive  of  my  welfare;  but,  more  than  this,  I  now  know 
the  snare  that  led  me  into  this  evil,  and  I  can  no 
longer,  as  I  did  once,  walk  deliberately  and  calmly 
into  this  snare.  I  know  now  that  this  snare  consists 
in  the  erroneous  belief  that  my  welfare  is  dependent 
only  upon  the  welfare  of  my  countrymen,  and  not 
upon  the  welfare  of  all  mankind.  I  know  now  that 
my  fellowship  with  others  cannot  be  shut  off  by  a 
frontier,  or  by  a  government  decree  which  decides 
that  I  belong  to  some  particular  political  organization. 
I  know  now  that  all  men  are  everywhere  brothers  and 
equals.  When  I  think  now  of  all  the  evil  that  I  have 
done,  that  I  have  endured,  and  that  I  have  seen  about 
me,  arising  from  national  enmities,  I  see  clearly  that 
it  is  all  due  to  that  gross  inposture  called  patriotism, — 
love  for  one's  native  land.  When  I  think  now  of  my 
education,  I  see  how  these  hateful  feelings  were 
grafted  in  my  mind.  I  understand  now  the  meaning 
of  the  words: 

"Love  your  enemies,  and  pray  for  them  that  perse- 
cute you ;  that  ye  may  be  sons  of  your  Father  that  is  in 
heaven :  for  he  maketh  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and 
the  good,  and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  the  unjust. " 

I  understand  now  that  true  welfare  is  possible  for 
me  only  on  condition  that  I  recognize  my  fellowship 
with  the  whole  world.  I  believe  this,  and  the  belief 
has  changed  my  estimate  of  what  is  right  and  wrong, 
important  and  despicable.  What  once  seemed  to  me 
right  and  important — love  of  country,  love  for  those  of 
my  own  race,  for  the  organization  called  the  State, 
services  rendered  at  the  expense  of  the  welfare  of 
other  men,  military  exploits — now  seem  to  me  detest- 
able and  pitiable.     What  once  seemed  to  me  shameful 


176  MY    RELIGION 

and  wrong — renunciation  of  nationality,  and  the 
cultivation  of  cosmopolitanism — now  seem  to  me  right 
and  important.  When,  now,  in  a  moment  of  forget- 
fulness,  I  sustain  a  Russian  in  preference  to  a  for- 
eigner, and  desire  the  success  of  Russia  or  of  the 
Russian  people,  I  can  no  longer  in  lucid  moments 
allow  myself  to  be  controlled  by  illusions  so  destruc- 
tive to  my  welfare  and  the  welfare  of  others.  I  can 
no  longer  recognize  states  or  peoples;  I  can  no  longer 
take  part  in  any  difference  between  peoples  or  states, 
or  any  discussion  between  them  either  verbal  or 
written,  much  less  in  any  service  in  behalf  of  any  par- 
ticular state.  I  can  no  longer  co-operate  with  meas- 
ures maintained  by  divisions  between  states, — the 
collection  of  custom  duties,  taxes,  the  manufacture  of 
arms  and  projectiles,  or  any  act  favoring  armaments, 
military  service,  and,  for  a  stronger  reason,  wars, — 
neither  can  I  encourage  others  to  take  any  part  in  them, 

I  once  thought  that  if  a  foreign  invasion  occurred, 
or  even  if  evil-minded  persons  attacked  me,  and  I  did 
not  defend  myself,  I  should  be  robbed  and  beaten  and 
tortured  and  killed  with  those  whom  I  felt  bound  to 
protect,  and  this  possibility  troubled  me.  But  this 
that  once  troubled  me  now  seems  desirable  and  in  con- 
formity with  the  truth.  I  know  now  that  the  foreign 
enemy  and  the  malefactors  or  brigands  are  all  men 
like  myself;  that,  like  myself,  they  love  good  and  hate 
evil;  that  they  live  as  I  live,  on  the  borders  of  death; 
and  that,  with  me,  they  seek  for  salvation,  and  will 
find  it  in  the  doctrine  of  Jesus. 

"But  hither  come  the  enemy, — Germans,  Turks, 
savages ;  if  you  do  not  make  war  on  them,  they  will 
exterminate  you!"     They  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 


By  COUNT   LEO    TOLSTOI  177 

If  there  were  a  society  of  Christian  men  that  did  evil 
to  none  and  gave  of  their  labor  for  the  good  of  others, 
such  a  society  would  have  no  enemies  to  kill  or  to  tor- 
ture them.  The  foreigners  would  take  only  what  the 
members  of  this  society  voluntarily  gave,  making  no 
distinction  between  Russians,  or  Turks,  or  Germans. 
But  when  Christians  live  in  the  midst  of  a  non-Chris- 
tian society  which  defends  itself  by  force  of  arm,  and 
calls  upon  the  Christians  to  join  in  waging  war,  then 
the  Christians  have  an  opportunity  for  revealing  the 
truth  to  them  who  know  it  not.  A  Christian  knowing 
the  truth  bears  witness  of  the  truth  before  others,  and 
this  testimony  can  be  made  manifest  only  by  example. 
He  must  renounce  war  and  do  good  to  all  men, 
whether  they-are  foreigners  or  compatriots. 

Men  are  united  by  error  into  a  compact  mass.  The 
prevailing  power  of  evil  is  the  cohesive  force  that 
binds  them  together.  The  reasonable  activity  of 
humanity  is  to  destroy  the  cohesive  power  of  evil. 
Revolutions  are  attempts  to  shatter  the  power  of  evil 
by  violence.  Men  think  that  by  hammering  upon  the 
mass  they  will  be  able  to  break  it  in  fragments,  but 
they  only  make  it  more  dense  and  impermeable  than 
it  was  before.  External  violence  is  of  no  avail.  The 
disruptive  movement  must  come  from  within  when 
molecule  releases  its  hold  upon  molecule  and  the  whole 
mass  falls  into  disintegration.  Error  is  the  force  that 
binds  men  together;  truth  alone  can  set  them  free. 
Now  truth  is  truth  only  when  it  is  in  action,  and  then 
only  can  it  be  transmitted  from  man  to  man.  Only 
truth  in  action,  by  introducing  light  into  the  conscience 
of  each  individual,  can  dissolve  the  homogeneity  of 
error,  and  detach  men  one  by  one  from  its  bonds. 


178  MY   RELIGION 

This  work  has  been  going  on  for  eighteen  hundred 
years.  It  began  when  the  commandments  of  Jesus 
were  first  given  to  humanity,  and  it  will  not  cease  till, 
as  Jesus  said,  "all  things  be  accomplished." 


WAR.     Copyright,  Lee  &  Shepard.     Reprinted  with 
permission.     By  CHARLES  SUMNER. 

IN  EED  not  dwell  now  on  the  waste  and  cruelty  of 
war.  These  stare  us  wildly  in  the  face,  like  lurid 
meteor-lights,  as  we  travel  the  page  of  history.  We 
see  the  desolation  and  death  that  pursue  its  demoniac 
footsteps.  We  look  upon  sacked  towns,  upon  ravaged 
territories,  upon  violated  homes;  we  behold  all  the 
sweet  charities  of  life  changed  to  wormwood  and  gall. 
Our  soul  is  penetrated  by  the  sharp  moan  of  mothers, 
sisters,  and  daughters — of  fathers,  brothers,  and  sons, 
who,  in  the  bitterness  of  their  bereavement,  refuse  to 
be  comforted.  Our  eyes  rest  at  last  upon  one  of  those 
fair  fields,  where  nature,  in  her  abundance,  spreads 
her  cloth  of  gold,  spacious  and  apt  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  mighty  multitudes — or,  perhaps,  from  the 
curious  subtlety  of  its  position,  like  the  carpet  in  the 
Arabian  tale,  seeming  to  contract  so  as  to  be  covered 
by  a  few  only,  or  to  dilate  so  as  to  receive  an  innumer- 
able host.  Here,  under  a  bright  sun,  such  as  shone  at 
Austerlitz  or  Buena  Vista — amidst  the  peaceful  har- 
monies of  nature — on  the  Sabbath  of  peace — we  behold 
bands  of  brothers,  children  of  a  common  Father,  heirs 
to  a  common  happiness,  struggling  together  in  the 
deadly  fight,  with  the  madness  of  fallen  spirits,  seek- 
ing with  murderous  weapons  the  lives  of  brothers  who 
have  never  injured  them  or  their  kindred.  The  havoc 
rages.  The  ground  is  soaked  with  their  commin- 
gling blood.  The  air  is  rent  by  their  commingling 
cries.  Horse  and  rider  are  stretched  together  on 
the  earth.  More  revolting  than  the  mangled  victims, 
than  the  gashed  limbs,  than  the  lifeless  trunks, 
than   the  spattering  brains,    are  the  lawless  passions 

179 


i^o  WAR 

which     sweep,     tempest-like,    through    the     fiendish 
tumult. 

"Nearer  comes  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful 
on. 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost  and  who  has 
won?" 
"Alas!  alas!  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe  together  fall. 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living;  pray,  my  sister,  for  them  all!" 

Horror-struck,  we  ask,  wherefore  this  hateful  con- 
test? The  melancholy,  but  truthful  answer  comes, 
that  this  is  the  established  method  of  determining 
justice  between  nations. 

The  scene  changes.  Far  away  on  the  distant  path- 
way of  the  ocean  two  ships  approach  each  other,  with 
white  canvas  broadly  spread  to  receive  the  flying 
gales.  They  are  proudly  built.  All  of  human  art  has 
been  lavished  in  their  graceful  proportions,  and  in 
their  well  compacted  sides,  while  they  look  in  dimen- 
sions like  floating  happy  islands  of  the  sea.  A  numer- 
ous crew,  with  costly  appliances  of  comfort,  hives  in 
their  secure  shelter.  Surely  these  two  travellers  shall 
meet  in  joy  and  friendship ;  the  flag  at  the  mast-head 
shall  give  the  signal  of  fellowship;  the  happy  sailors 
shall  cluster  in  the  rigging,  and  even  on  the  yard-arms, 
to  look  each  other  in  the  face,  while  the  exhilarating 
voices  of  both  crews  shall  mingle  in  accents  of  glad- 
ness uncontrollable.  It  is  not  so.  Not  as  brothers, 
not  as  friends,  not  as  wayfarers  of  the  common  ocean, 
do  they  come  together;  but  as  enemies.  The  gentle 
vessels  now  bristle  fiercely  with  death-dealing  instru- 
ments. On  their  spacious  decks,  aloft  on  all  their 
masts,  flashes  the  deadly  musketry.     From  their  sides 


By  CHARLES   SUMNER  18 


i»i 


spout  cataracts  of  flame,  amidst  the  pealing  thunders 
of  a  fatal  artillery.  They,  who  had  escaped  "the 
dreadful  touch  of  merchant-marring  rocks" — who  had 
sped  on  their  long  and  solitary  way  unharmed  by  wind 
or  wave — whom  the  hurricane  had  spared — in  whose 
favor  storms  and  seas  had  intermitted  their  immitiga- 
ble war — now  at  last  fall  by  the  hand  of  each  other. 
The  same  spectacle  of  horror  greets  us  from  both  ships. 
On  their  decks,  reddened  with  blood,  the  murders  of 
St.  Bartholomew  and  of  the  Sicilian  Vespers,  with  the 
fires  of  Smithfield,  seem  to  break  forth  anew,  and  to 
concentrate  their  rage.  Each  has  now  become  a  swim- 
ming Golgotha.  %  At  length  these  vessels — such 
pageants  of  the  sea — once  so  stately — so  proudly  built 
— but  now  rudely  shattered  by  cannon-balls — with 
shivered  masts  and  ragged  sails — exist  only  as  unman- 
ageable wrecks,  weltering  on  the  uncertain  waves, 
whose  temporary  lull  of  peace  is  now  their  only  safety. 
In  amazement  at  this  strange  unnatural  contest — away 
from  countiy  and  home — where  there  is  no  country  or 
home  to  defend — we  ask  again,  wherefore  this  dismal 
duel?  Again  the  melancholy  but  truthful  answer 
promptly  comes,  that  this  is  the  established  method  of 
determining  justice  between  nations. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY.     By  ELMER  HEWITT 
CAPEN. 

NO  account  of  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  would  be  com- 
plete that  failed  to  recognize  his  religious  char- 
acter. In  this  he  occupied  a  peculiar  place  among 
literary  men  in  an  age  that  is  sometimes  called  agnos- 
tic and  irreverent.  His  religion  was  an  ever  present 
reality,  pervading  his  whole  being,  not  as  is  often  the 
case,  even  with  church  members,  something  to  be 
kept  in  the  background  of  one's  life  and  to  be  apolo- 
gized for  to  his  friends.  Wherever  he  went,  he  walked, 
consciously  and  with  reverent  steps,  in  the  great  tem- 
ple of  the  ever-living  and  omnipresent  God.  The 
spiritual  element  of  the  universe  no  more  needed 
demonstration  than  the  air  or  the  sunlight.  His  faith 
was  so  lofty  and  clear  that  he  could  affirm  with  St. 
Paul,  "The  things  which  are  seen  are  temporal;  but 
the  things  which  are  not  seen  are  eternal."  With 
every  fibre  of  his  being  he  was  a  Roman  Catholic. 
Why  should  he  not  be?  Not  only  was  he  born  and 
reared  in  the  Catholic  Church,  so  that  her  traditions 
and  history  were  interwoven  with  every  thread  of  his 
conscious  being,  but  she  touched  him  gently  and  with 
irresistible  force  on  the  better  and  more  sensitive  side 
of  his  nature  by  her  artistic  creations,  her  stately  and 
gorgeous  ritual,  her  noble  and  devoted  priesthood,  her 
orderly  and  powerful  administration,  her  countless 
and  inexhaustible  philanthropies,  her  vast  and  world- 
wide fellowship  and  communion,  and  her  clear  and 
unwavering  answer  to  all  the  deeper  questions  of  the 
soul. 

Yet  I  am  constrained  to  say  that  he  was  more  than  a 
Catholic.      No   single  name,   however  venerable    and 

182 


By  ELMER   HEWITT   CAPEN  183 

comprehensive;  no  label,  however  broadly  and  care- 
fully phrased,  could  adequately  describe  that  subtile 
and  elastic  quality  of  soul  which  we  call  his  religion 
By  a  strange  and  unerring  instinct  his  mind,  with  the 
swiftness  of  light,  seized  the  inherent  and  essential 
truth  which  forever  defines  the  relation  between  the 
human  soul  and  God.  He  saw  that  the  quality  of 
men's  faith  is  not  determined  by  the  form  in  which  it 
is  expressed.  Oh,  how  he  tried  to  overcome  and 
destroy  the  false  issue  which  for  a  quarter  of  a  mil- 
lennium England  had  been  trying  to  raise  between 
Protestants  and  Catholics  in  Ireland!  Living  in  con- 
stant daily  fellowship  with  the  sons  of  Pilgrims  and 
Puritans — men  who  came  hither  hating  the  Papacy  as 
the  instrument  of  Satan — he  saw  the  serenity  and 
beauty  of  their  piety,  and  that  they  were  the  very 
elect  of  God  for  the  more  perfect  establishment  of  His 
kingdom  among  men. 

He  perceived  that  there  is  more  than  one  way  into 
the  heavenly  presence.  The  poor  heathen  mother 
pressing  her  babe  for  a  moment  to  her  breast  in 
agonized  affection  before  she  casts  it  to  the  crocodiles 
to  appease  the  vengeance  of  her  deity,  the  minister  of 
a  Protestant  conventicle  preaching  in  harsh  and 
strident  tones  a  divisive  gospel,  and  the  indifferent, 
yet  gently  charitable  sceptic,  can  all  present  an  offer- 
ing that 

May  rise 
To  heaven  and  find  acceptance  there, 

no  less  than  he  whose  petition  is  borne  upward  on 
clouds  of  incense  that  float  from  censers  swung  by 
priestly  hands  before  cathedral  altars.  This  clear- 
eyed,  tender,  transcendent  and  all-comprehending  faith 


i84  JOHN    BOYLE    O'REILLY 

was  the  solvent  in  which  provincialism,  prejudice, 
bigotry  and  vindictiveness  vanished  utterly  and  for- 
ever. 

Such  in  my  poor  and  fragmentary  speech  was  the 
man  whose  monument  we  have  reared — the  broadest- 
minded  and  most  accomplished  Irishman  since  Edmund 
Burke,  one  of  the  few  rare  and  transparent  souls  to 
whom,  out  of  all  the  races,  the  last  half  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  has  decreed  an  immortality  of  fame. 
We  place  him  here  in  our  great  Valhalla.  The  vener- 
able Puritan  founders  of  this  glorious  commonwealth, 
the  mighty  leaders  of  the  revolutionary  epoch,  the 
soldiers  whose  blood  moistened  and  rendered  sacred 
forever  the  soil  of  Bunker  Hill,  the  matchless  orators 
and  heroes  of  the  anti-slavery  reform,  the  nameless 
hosts  who  with  the  first  echoes  of  Sumter's  guns 
grasped  their  muskets  and  marched  to  the  defence  of 
the  republic,  must  all  lie  a  little  closer  in  their  graves 
to  make  room  for  this  lover  of  mankind. 

Here  we  set  his  memorial  in  the  public  square, 
embellished  with  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  art  can 
bestow.  Let  those  who  go  swarming  past  it  day  after 
day,  fleeing  from  the  dust  and  turmoil  of  the  city,  seek- 
ing the  fields  and  woods  beyond,  turn  their  eyes  hither, 
and  recall  the  happy-hearted,  sunny  soul,  to  whom  the 
song  of  birds  and  the  voice  of  running  waters  were 
ever  like  angels'  voices  speaking  of  paradise.  Let  the 
disheartened  reformer  pause  here  for  a  moment  and 
hear  him  say,  as  it  were  out  of  the  open  heavens: — 

I  know 
That  when  God  gives  us  the  clearest  light, 
He  does  not  touch  our  eyes  with  love,  but  sorrow. 

Let  the  hunted  fugitive,  speaking  in  an  alien  tongue. 


By  ELMER    HEWITT   CAPEN  185 

or  our  English  speech  with  an  alien  accent,  set  down 
his  knapsack  beside  these  stones,  and,  remembering 
the  welcome  which  America  gave  to  this  stranger,  be 
assured  that  here  there  is  room  for  honest  work  and 
patriotic  effort  whether  men  are  native  to  the  soil  or 
foreign-born.  Let  him  who  would  serve  his  country 
by  pen,  or  speech,  or  sword,  look  at  these  symbols  in 
bronze,  and  find  his  patriotism  renewed.  Let  the 
children  of  the  poor,  as  they  behold  this  monument, 
be  reminded  that  it  is  neither  wealth  nor  station,  but 
honorable  service  that  secures  for  men  under  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  affection  and  renown.  Let  the  high-bred 
youth  of  the  great  city,  who  may  be  tempted  to  regard 
with  scorn  the  poor  and  lowly,  pause  and  listen  before 
this  noble  pile,  and  he  will  learn  the  lesson  which  the 
rich  must  learn  for  safety : — 

That  the  bluest  blood  is  putrid  blood. 
That  the  people's  blood  is  red. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  Copyright,  Hough- 
ton, Mifflin  &  Company.  Reprinted  with  permission. 
By  RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON. 

THERE  goes  in  the  world  a  notion  that  the  scholar 
should  be  a  reclnse,  a  valetudinarian, — as 
unfit  for  any  handiwork  or  public  labor,  as  a  penknife 
for  an  axe.  The  so-called  "practical  men"  sneer  at 
speculative  men,  as  if  because  they  speculate  or  see, 
they  could  do  nothing.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  the 
clergy, — who  are  always,  more  universally  than  any 
other  class,  the  scholars  of  their  day, — are  addressed 
as  women ;  that  the  rough,  spontaneous  conversation 
of  men  they  do  not  hear,  but  only  a  mincing  and 
diluted  speech.  They  are  often  virtually  disfran- 
chised; and,  indeed,  there  are  advocates  for  their  celi- 
bacy. As  far  as  this  is  true  of  the  studious  classes,  it 
is  not  just  and  wise.  Action  is  with  the  scholar  sub- 
ordinate, but  it  is  essential.  Without  it,  he  is  not  yet 
man.  Without  it,  thought  can  never  ripen  into  truth. 
Whilst  the  world  hangs  before  the  eye  as  a  cloud  of 
beauty,  we  cannot  even  see  its  beauty.  Inaction  is 
cowardice,  but  there  can  be  no  scholar  without  the 
heroic  mind. 

Of  course,  he  who  has  put  forth  his  total  strength  in 
fit  actions,  has  the  richest  return  of  wisdom.  I  will 
not  shut  myself  out  of  this  globe  of  action,  and  trans- 
plant an  oak  into  a  flower-pot,  there  to  hunger  and 
pine ;  nor  trust  the  revenue  of  some  single  faculty,  and 
exhaust  one  vein  of  thought,  much  like  those  Savo- 
yards, who,  getting  their  livelihood  by  carving  shep- 
herds, shepherdesses,  and  smoking  Dutchmen,  for  all 
Europe,  went  out  one  day  to  the  mountain  to  find 
stock,  and  discovered  that  they  had  whittled  up  the 

i86 


By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     187 

last  of  their  pine  trees.  Authors  we  have,  in  num- 
bers, who  have  written  out  their  vein,  and  who,  moved 
by  a  commendable  prudence,  sail  for  Greece  or  Pales- 
tine, follow  the  trapper  into  the  prairie,  or  ramble 
round  Algiers,  to  replenish  their  merchantable  stock. 

If  it  were  only  for  a  vocabulary,  the  scholar  would 
be  covetous  of  action.  Life  is  our  dictionary.  Years 
are  well  spent  in  country  labors;  in  town, — in  the 
insight  into  trades  and  manufactures;  in  frank  inter- 
course with  many  men  and  women;  in  science;  in  art; 
to  the  one  end  of  mastering  in  all  their  facts  a  lan- 
guage by  which  to  illustrate  and  embody  our  percep- 
tions. I  learn  immediately  from  any  speaker  how 
much  he  has  already  lived,  through  the  poverty  or  the 
splendor  of  his  speech.  Life  lies  behind  us  as  the 
quarry  from  whence  we  get  tiles  and  cope-stones  for 
the  masonry  of  to-day.  This  is  the  way  to  learn  gram- 
mar. Colleges  and  books  only  copy  the  language 
which  the  field  and  the  workyard  made. 

But  the  final  value  of  action,  like  that  of  books,  and 
better  than  books,  is,  that  it  is  a  resource.  That  great 
principle  of  Undulation  in  nature,  that  shows  itself  in 
the  inspiring  and  expiring  of  the  breath ;  in  desire  and 
satiety;  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea;  in  day  and 
night;  in  heat  and  cold;  and  as  yet  more  deeply 
ingrained  in  every  atom  and  every  fluid,  is  known  to 
us  under  the  name  of  Polarity — these  "fits  of  easy 
transmission  and  reflection,"  as  Newton  called  them, 
are  the  law  of  nature  because  they  are  the  law  of  spirit. 

The  mind  now  thinks;  now  acts;  and  each  fit  repro- 
duces the  other.  When  the  artist  has  exhausted  his 
materials,  when  the  fancy  no  longer  paints,  when 
thoughts  are  no  longer  apprehended,  and  books  are  a 


i88  The  AMERICAN   SCHOLAR. 

weariness, — he  has  always  the  resource  to  live.  Char- 
acter is  higher  than  intellect.  Thinking  is  the  func- 
tion. Living  is  the  functionary.  The  stream  retreats 
to  its  source.  A  great  soul  will  be  strong  to  live,  as 
well  as  strong  to  think.  Does  he  lack  organ  or  medium 
to  impart  his  truth?  He  can  still  fall  back  on  this 
elemental  force  of  living  them.  This  is  a  total  act. 
Thinking  is  a  partial  act.  Let  the  grandeur  of  justice 
shine  in  his  affairs.  Let  the  beauty  of  affection  cheer 
his  lowly  roof.  Those  "far  from  fame,"  who  dwell 
and  act  with  him,  will  feel  the  force  of  his  constitution 
in  the  doings  and  passages  of  the  day  better  than  it 
can  be  measured  by  any  public  and  designed  display. 
Time  shall  teach  him,  that  the  scholar  loses  no  hour 
which  the  man  lives.  Herein  he  unfolds  the  sacred 
germ  of  his  instinct,  screened  from  influence.  What 
is  lost  in  seemliness  is  gained  in  strength.  Not  out  of 
those  on  whom  systems  of  education  have  exhausted 
their  culture,  comes  the  helpful  giant  to  destroy  the 
old  or  to  build  the  new,  but  out  of  unhandselled  savage 
nature,  out  of  terrible  Druids  and  Berserkirs,  come  at 
last  Alfred  and  Shakespeare. 

I  hear  therefore  with  joy  whatever  is  beginning  to 
be  said  of  the  dignity  and  necessity  of  labor  to  every 
citizen.  There  is  virtue  yet  in  the  hoe  and  the  spade, 
for  learned  as  well  as  for  unlearned  hands.  And 
labor  is  everywhere  welcome;  always  we  are  invited 
to  work ;  only  be  this  limitation  observed,  that  a  man 
shall  not  for  the  sake  of  wider  activity  sacrifice  any 
opinion  to  the  popular  judgments  and  modes  of  action. 


JEWISH  DISABILITIES.     By  THOMAS  BABING- 
TON,  LORD  MACAULAY.      . 

SIR,  it  is  amusing  to  compare  the  manner  in  which 
the  question  of  Catholic  emancipation  was 
argued  formerly  by  some  gentlemen  with  the  manner 
in  which  the  question  of  Jew  emancipation  is  argued 
by  the  same  gentlemen  now.  When  the  question  was 
about  Catholic  emancipation,  the  cry  was,  "See  how 
restless,  how  versatile,  how  encroaching,  how  insinu- 
ating, is  the  spirit  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  See  how 
her  priests  compass  earth  and  sea  to  make  one 
proselyte,  how  indefatigably  they  toil,  how  attentively 
they  study  the  weak  and  strong  parts  of  every  char- 
acter, how  skilfully  they  employ  literature,  arts,  sci- 
ences, as  engines  for  the  propagation  of  their  faith. 
You  find  them  in  every  region  and  under  every  dis- 
guise, collating  manuscripts  in  the  Bodleian,  fixing 
telescopes  in  the  Observ^atory  of  Pekin,  teaching  the 
use  of  the  plough  and  the  spinning  wheel  to  the  sav- 
ages of  Paraguay.  Will  you  give  power  to  the  mem- 
bers of  a  Church  so  busy,  so  aggressive,  so  insatiable?" 
Well,  now  the  question  is  about  people  who  never  try 
to  seduce  any  stranger  to  join  them,  and  who  do  not 
wish  anybody  to  be  of  their  faith  who  is  not  also  of 
their  blood.  And  now  you  exclaim,  "Will  you  give 
power  to  the  members  of  a  sect  which  remains  sullenly 
apart  from  other  sects,  which  does  not  invite,  nay, 
which  hardly  even  admits,  neophytes?" 

Another  charge  has  been  brought  against  the  Jews, 
not  by  my  honourable  friend,  the  Member  for  the 
University  of  Oxford, — he  has  too  much  learning  and 
too  much  good  feeling  to  make  such  a  charge, — but  by 
the  honourable  Member  for  Oldham,   who  has,  I  am 

189 


I90  JEWISH    DISABILITIES 

sorry  to  see,  quitted  his  place.  The  honourable  Mem- 
ber for  Oldham  tells  us  that  the  Jews  are  naturally  a 
mean  race,  a  sordid  race,  a  money-getting  race ;  that 
they  are  averse  to  all  honourable  callings ;  that  they 
neither  sow  nor  reap ;  that  they  have  neither  flocks  nor 
herds;  that  usury  is  the  only  pursuit  for  which  they 
are  fit;  that  they  are  destitute  of  all  elevated  and 
amiable  sentiments.  Such,  sir,  has  in  every  age  been 
the  reasoning  of  bigots.  They  never  fail  to  plead  in 
justification  of  persecution  the  vices  which  persecution 
has  engendered.  England  has  been  to  the  Jews  less 
than  half  a  country ;  and  we  revile  them  because  they 
do  not  feel  for  England  more  than  a  half  patriotism. 
We  treat  them  as  slaves,  and  wonder  that  they  do  not 
regard  us  as  brethren.  We  drive  them  to  mean  occu- 
pations, and  then  reproach  them  for  not  embracing 
honourable  professions.  We  long  forbade  them  to 
possess  land;  and  we  complain  that  they  chiefly  occupy 
themselves  in  trade.  We  shut  them  out  from  all  the 
paths  of  ambition;  and  then  we  despise  them  for  tak- 
ing refuge  in  avarice.  During  many  ages  we  have,  in 
all  our  dealings  with  them,  abused  our  immense 
superiority  of  force;  and  then  we  are  disgusted 
because  they  have  recourse  to  that  cunning  which  is 
the  natural  and  universal  defence  of  the  weak  against 
the  violence  of  the  strong.  But  were  they  always  a 
mere  money-changing,  money-getting,  money-hoard- 
ing race?  Nobody  knows  better  than  my  honourable 
friend,  the  Member  for  the  University  of  Oxford,  that 
there  is  nothing  in  their  national  character  which 
unfits  them  for  the  highest  duties  of  citizens.  He 
knows  that,  in  the  infancy  of  civilization,  when  our 
island  was  as  savage  as  New  Guinea,  when  letters  and 


By  THOMAS   BABINGTON  MACAULAY    191 

arts  were  still  tinknown  to  Athens,  when  scarcely  a 
thatched  hut  stood  on  what  was  afterwards  the  site  of 
Rome,  this  contemned  people  had  their  fenced  cities 
and  cedar  palaces,  their  splendid  Temple,  their  fleets 
of  merchant  ships,  their  schools  of  sacred  learning, 
their  great  statesmen  and  soldiers,  their  natural  philos- 
ophers, their  historians  and  their  poets.  What  nation 
ever  contended  more  manfully  against  overwhelming 
odds  for  its  independence  and  religion?  What  nation 
ever,  in  its  last  agonies,  gave  such  signal  proofs  of 
what  may  be  accomplished  by  a  brave  despair?  And 
if,  in  the  course  of  many  centuries,  the  oppressed 
descendants  of  warriors  and  sages  have  degenerated 
from  the  qualities  of  their  fathers,  if,  while  excluded 
from  the  blessings  of  law,  and  bowed  down  under  the 
yoke  of  slavery,  they  have  contracted  some  of  the  vices 
of  outlaws  and  of  slaves,  shall  we  consider  this  as 
matter  of  reproach  to  them?  Shall  we  not  rather  con- 
sider it  as  matter  of  shame  and  remorse  to  ourselves? 
Let  us  do  justice  to  them.  Let  us  open  to  them  the 
door  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Let  us  open  to  them 
every  career  in  which  ability  and  energy  can  be  dis- 
played. Till  we  have  done  this,  let  us  not  presume  to 
say  that  there  is  no  genius  among  the  countrymen  of 
Isaiah,  no  heroism  among  the  descendants  of  the 
Maccabees. 

Sir,  in  supporting  the  motion  of  my  honourable 
friend,  I  am,  I  firmly  believe,  supporting  the  honour 
and  the  interests  of  the  Christian  religion.  I  should 
think  that  I  insulted  that  religion  if  I  said  that  it  can- 
not stand  unaided  by  intolerant  laws.  Without  such 
laws  it  was  established,  and  without  such  laws  it  may 
be  maintained.     It  triumphed  over  the  superstitions  of 


192  JEWISH    DISABILITIES 

the  most  refined  and  of  the  most  savage  nations,  over 
the  graceful  mythology  of  Greece  and  the  bloody 
idolatry  of  the  northern  forests.  It  prevailed  over  the 
power  and  policy  of  the  Roman  empire.  It  tamed  the 
barbarians  by  whom  that  empire  was  overthrown. 
But  all  these  victories  were  gained  not  by  the  help  of 
intolerance,  but  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  intoler- 
ance. The  whole  history  of  Christianity  proves  that 
she  has  little  indeed  to  fear  from  persecution  as  a  foe, 
but  much  to  fear  from  persecution  as  an  ally.  May 
she  long  continue  to  bless  our  country  with  her  benig- 
nant influence,  strong  in  her  sublime  philosophy, 
strong  in  her  spotless  morality,  strong  in  those 
internal  and  external  evidences  to  which  the  most 
powerful  and  comprehensive  of  human  intellects  have 
yielded  assent,  the  last  solace  of  those  who  have  out- 
lived every  earthly  hope,  the  last  restraint  of  those 
who  are  raised  above  every  earthly  fear!  But  let  not 
us,  mistaking  her  character  and  her  interests,  fight  the 
battle  of  truth  with  the  weapons  of  error,  and 
endeavour  to  support  by  oppression  that  religion 
which  first  taught  the  human  race  the  great  lesson  of 
universal  charity. 


JUSTICE  FOR  DREYFUS.     By  EMILE  ZOLA. 

FOR  nearly  eleven  months  I  have  been  away  from 
France.  During  eleven  months  have  I  imposed 
upon  myself  the  most  complete  exile,  the  most  obscure 
retreat,  the  most  absolute  silence.  I  was  like  one 
voluntarily  dead,  lying  in  the  secret  grave,  in  expecta- 
tion of  truth  and  justice.  And  to-day,  truth  having 
conquered,  justice  reigning  at  last,  I  am  re-born,  I 
return,  and  once  more  take  my  place  upon  French 
soil.  To-day  is  it  not  a  shining  evidence  that  our 
lengthy  campaign,  to  my  advisers,  to  my  friends  and 
to  myself,  has  been  nothing  but  a  disinterested  strug- 
gle to  cause  to  flow  from  facts  the  greatest  possible 
amount  of  light?  If  we  have  wished  to  gain  time,  if 
we  have  opposed  proceeding  to  proceeding,  it  is 
because  we  had  charge  of  the  truth  as  we  have  charge 
of  a  soul;  it  is  because  we  did  not  wish  to  see  the 
feeble  glimmer  extinguished  within  our  hands,  when 
it  was  growing  day  by  day.  It  was  like  a  small,  sacred 
lamp,  which  was  being  carried  through  the  tempest, 
and  which  had  to  be  defended  against  the  fury  of  the 
crowd,  maddened  by  lying.  We  had  but  one  tactic — 
to  remain  masters  of  our  affair,  to  prolong  it  so  long  as 
possible  that  it  might  provoke  events  to  happen,  to 
draw  from  it,  in  one  word,  what  we  had  promised  our- 
selves of  decisive  truths.  And  we  have  never  given  a 
thought  to  ourselves,  we  have  never  acted  but  for  the 
triumph  of  right,  ready  to  pay  with  our  liberty  and 
life. 

Let  the  situation  be  remembered  which  was  created 
for  me,  in  Versailles  last  July.  It  was  a  strangling 
without  words.  And  I  did  not  want  to  be  thus 
strangled ;  it  did  not  suit  me  to  be  thus  executed  dur- 

193 


194  JUSTICE  for  DREYFUS 

ing-  the  absence  of  Parliament,  amidst  the  passions  of 
the  street.  It  was  our  will  to  reach  October,  with  the 
hope  that  truth  would  have  still  advanced,  that  justice 
would  then  have  to  be  done.  Besides,  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  what  underhand  work  was  being  carried  on 
all  this  time.  All  we  could  expect  from  the  examina- 
tions opened  against  Commander  Esterhazy  and 
against  Colonel  Picquart.  One  and  the  other  were  in 
prison,  we  were  not  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  shining 
lights  must  perforce  flow  from  these  inquests,  if  they 
were  held  loyally;  and,  without,  nevertheless,  fore- 
seeing the  confession,  then  the  suicide  of  Colonel 
Henry,  we  were  reckoning  upon  the  inevitable  events 
which  one  day  or  another  would  enlighten  the  whole 
monstrous  affair  in  its  true  and  sinister  aspect.  There- 
fore is  not  our  desire  to  gain  time  explained?  Were 
we  not  justified  in  using  every  legal  means  of  choosing 
our  hour  in  the  best  interests  of  Justice?  Was  it  not  to 
conquer,  to  temporize,  in  the  most  painful  and  most 
holy  of  struggles?  And  these  reasons  were  so  power- 
ful that  I  departed,  resigned,  announcing  my  return  in 
October,  with  the  certitude  to  thereby  be  a  good 
worker  for  the  cause  and  to  assure  its  triumph. 

But  what  I  am  not  saying  to-day,  what  I  shall  tell  of 
some  day,  is  the  anguish  of  heart,  the  bitterness  of  this 
sacrifice.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  I  am  neither  a 
polemist,  nor  a  politician,  seeking  benefits  from  dis- 
turbances. I  am  a  free  writer  who  has  had  but  one 
passion  in  his  life,  that  of  truth.  During  nearly  forty 
years  I  have  served  my  country  by  means  of  my  pen, 
with  all  my  courage,  with  all  I  possessed  of  strength  to 
work,  and  good  faith.  And  I  swear  to  you,  there  is  a 
fearful  sorrow,  to  go  away  alone,  one  dark  night,  to 


By  EMILE    ZOLA  195 

see  afar  the  lights  of  France  growing  dim,  when  one 
has  simply  wished  for  her  honour,  her  grandeur  in 
matters  of  justice  among  nations.  And  those  who 
think  that  I  went  away  to  escape  prison,  and  perhaps 
to  live  abroad  in  luxury  with  Jewish  gold,  are  sorry 
people  who  inspire  me  with  a  little  disgust  and  a 
great  deal  of  contempt.  I  was  to  have  returned  in 
October.  We  had  resolved  to  temporize  until  the 
reopening  of  the  Houses,  while  reckoning  upon  the 
unforeseen  event  which  was  for  us,  in  the  course  of 
things,  the  certain  event.  And  did  not  that  unforeseen 
event  not  even  await  October,  but  burst  forth  already 
at  the  end  of  August,  with  the  confession  and  the  sui- 
cide of  Colonel  Henry? 

On  the  very  next  day  I  desired  to  return.  For  me, 
the  revision  was  imposing  itself,  Dreyfus's  innocence 
had  immediately  to  be  recognized.  I  had  besides 
never  asked  for  anything  but  the  revision;  my  role 
must  perforce  end,  so  soon  as  the  Cour  de  Cassation 
should  convene,  and  I  was  ready  to  withdraw.  As  to 
my  trial,  it  was  no  longer  anything,  in  my  sight,  than 
a  pure  formality,  since  the  document  produced  by  the 
Generals  de  Pellieux,  Gonse  and  Boisdeff  re,  and  upon 
which  the  jury  had  convicted  me,  was  a  forgery  from 
which  its  author  had  just  taken  refuge  in  death.  And 
I  was  therefore  preparing  to  return,  when  my  friends 
from  Paris,  my  counsel,  all  those  who  had  remained  in 
the  battle,  wrote  me  letters  full  of  anxiety.  The  situ- 
ation remained  serious.  Far  from  being  assured,  the 
revision  remained  uncertain,  M.  Brisson,  the  head 
of  the  cabinet,  was  meeting  with  ever-increasing 
obstacles,  betrayed  by  every  one,  not  being  able  to 
dispose  of  a  simple  police  official.     So  that  my  return, 


196  JUSTICE  for  DREYFUS 

in  the  midst  of  over-excited  passions,  would  appear  as 
a  pretext  for  new  acts  of  violence,  a  danger,  one  more 
embarrassment  for  the  ministry,  in  its  already  so  very 
difficult  task.  And,  desirous  not  to  complicate  the 
situation,  I  had  to  submit,  I  consented  to  be  patient 
still. 

Now  that  the  good  work  is  accomplished,  I  wish  for 
neither  applause  nor  recompense  even  if  it  is  estimated 
that  I  may  have  been  one  of  its  useful  workers.  I 
have  had  no  merit  whatever,  the  cause  was  so  beauti- 
ful, so  humane!  It  is  Truth  which  has  conquered,  and 
it  could  not  have  been  otherwise.  From  the  first,  I 
had  the  certainty  thereof;  I  have  walked  in  a  straight 
path,  which  diminishes  my  courage.  It  was  quite 
simple.  I  should  like  to  have  it  said  of  me,  as  only 
homage,  that  I  have  been  neither  foolish  nor  wicked. 
Besides,  I  already  have  my  recompense,  that  of  think- 
ing of  the  innocent  man  whom  I  shall  have  helped  to 
pull  from  the  tomb,  where  alive,  during  more  than 
four  years,  he  has  been  agonizing.  Ah!  I  must  con- 
fess, the  thought  of  seeing  him  free,  to  grasp  his 
hands,  agitates  me  with  an  extraordinary  emotion, 
which  fills  my  eyes  with  happy  tears.  That  minute 
will  suffice  to  pay  for  all  my  worries.  My  friends  and 
myself,  we  shall  have  done  a  good  action,  for  which 
the  brave  hearts  of  Fra^ice  will  remember  us  in  grati- 
tude. And  what  more  can  you  wish  for,  a  family  who 
v/ill  love  us,  a  woman  and  children  who  will  bless  us, 
a  man  who  will  owe  it  to  us  to  have  incarnated  within 
him  the  triumph  of  right  and  the  solidarity  of  man- 
kind? 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  ASSEMBLY  OF  NOBLESSE. 
By  HONORE,  Comte  de  Mirabeau. 

WHAT  have  I  done  that  was  so  criminal?  I  have 
wished  that  my  Order  were  wise  enough  to  give 
to-day  what  will  infallibly  be  wrested  from  it  to-mor- 
row; that  it  should  receive  the  merit  and  glory  of 
sanctioning  the  assemblage  of  the  Three  Orders, 
which  all  Provence  loudly  demands.  This  is  the  crime 
of  your  "enemy]  of  peace!"  Or  rather,  I  have  ven- 
tured to  believe  that  the  people  might  be  in  the  right. 
Ah,  doubtless,  a  patrician  soiled  with  such  a  thought 
deserves  vengeance !  But  I  am  still  guiltier  than  you 
think;  for  it  is  my  belief  that  the  people  which  com- 
plains is  always  in  the  right;  that  its  indefatigable 
patience  invariably  waits  the  uttermost  excesses  of 
oppression,  before  it  can  determine  on  resisting;  that 
it  never  resists  long  enough  to  obtain  complete 
redress ;  and  does  not  sufficiently  know  that  to  strike 
its  enemies  into  terror  and  submission,  it  has  only  to 
standstill;  that  the  most  innocent  as  the  most  invin- 
cible of  all  powers  is  the  power  of  refusing  to  do.  I 
believe  after  this  manner;  punish  the  enemy  of  peace! 
But  you,  ministers  of  a  God  of  peace,  who  are 
ordained  to  bless  and  not  to  curse,  and  yet  have 
launched  your  anathema  on  me,  without  even  the 
attempt  at  enlightening  me,  at  reasoning  with  me! 
And  you  "friends  of  peace,"  who  denounce  to  the 
people,  with  all  vehemence  of  hatred,  the  one  defender 
it  has  yet  found,  out  of  its  own  ranks;  — who,  to  bring 
about  concord,  are  filling  capital  and  province  with 
placards  calculated  to  arm  the  rural  districts  against 
the  towns,  if  your  deeds  did  not  refute  your  writings ; 
— who,  to  prepare  ways  of  conciliation,  protest  against 

197 


198  ADDRESS  to  the  ASSEMBLY  of  NOBLESSE 

the  royal  Regulation  for  convoking  the  States-General, 
because  it  grants  the  people  as  many  deputies  as  both 
the  other  orders,  and  against  all  that  the  coming 
National  Assembly  shall  do,  unless  its  laws  secure  the 
triumph  of  your  pretensions,  the  eternity  of  your 
privileges!  Disinterested  "friends  of  peace!"  I  have 
appealed  to  your  honour,  and  summon  you  to  state 
what  expressions  of  mine  have  offended  against  either 
the  respect  we  owe  to  the  royal  authority  or  to  the 
nation's  right?  Nobles  of  Provence,  Europe  is  atten- 
tive ;  weigh  well  your  answer.  Men  of  God,  beware ; 
God  hears  you ! 

And  if  you  do  not  answer,  but  keep  silence,  shutting 
yourselves  up  in  the  vague  declamations  you  have 
hurled  at  me,  then  allow  me  to  add  one  word. 

In  all  countries,  in  all  times,  aristocrats  have 
implacably  persecuted  the  people's  friends;  and  if,  by 
some  singular  combination  of  fortune,  there  chanced 
to  arise  such  a  one  in  their  own  circle,  it  was  he  above 
all  whom  they  struck  at,  eager  to  inspire  wider  terror 
by  the  elevation  of  their  victim.  Thus  perished  the 
last  of  the  Gracchi  by  the  hands  of  the  patricians;  but, 
being  struck  with  the  mortal  stab,  he  flung  dust 
towards  Heaven,  and  called  on  the  Avenging  Deities; 
and  from  this  dust  sprang  Marius, — Marius  not  so 
illustrious  for  exterminating  the  Cimbri  as  for  over- 
turning in  Rome  the  tyranny  of  the  Noblesse! 


THE     REPEAL     OF     THE     STAMP     ACT.       By 
JONATHAN  MAYHEW. 

WE  have  never  known  so  quick  and  general  a 
transition  from  the  depth  of  sorrow  to  the 
height  of  joy,  as  on  this  occasion ;  nor,  indeed,  so  great 
and  universal  a  flow  of  either,  on  any  other  occasion 
whatever.  It  is  very  true,  we  have  heretofore  seen 
times  of  great  adversity.  We  have  known  seasons  of 
drought,  dearth  and  spreading  mortal  diseases;  the 
pestilence  walking  in  darkness,  and  the  destruction 
wasting  at  noonday.  We  have  seen  wide  devastations 
made  by  fire ;  and  amazing  tempests,  the  heavens  on 
flame,  the  winds  and  the  waves  roaring.  We  have 
known  repeated  earthquakes,  threatening  us  with 
speedy  destruction.  We  have  been  under  great  appre- 
hensions by  reason  of  formidable  fleets  of  an  enemy  on 
our  coasts,  menacing  fire  and  sword  to  all  our  maritime 
towns.  We  have  known  times  when  the  French  and 
Savage  armies  made  terrible  havoc  on  our  frontiers, 
carrying  all  before  them  for  a  while;  when  we  were 
not  without  fear,  that  some  capital  towns  in  the  colo- 
nies would  fall  into  their  merciless  hands.  Such  times 
as  these  we  have  known;  at  some  of  which  almost 
every  "face  gathered  paleness,"  and  the  knees  of  all 
but  the  good  and  brave  waxed  feeble.  But  never  have 
we  known  a  season  of  such  universal  consternation  and 
anxiety  among  people  of  all  ranks  and  ages,  in  these 
colonics,  as  was  occasioned  by  that  parliamentary 
procedure,  which  threatened  us  and  our  posterity  with 
perpetual  bondage  and  slavery.  For  they,  as  we 
generally  suppose,  are  really  slaves  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  who  are  obliged  to  labor  and  toil  only 
for  the  benefit    of  others;    or,  which    comes    to    the 

199 


200  The  REPEAL   of  the  STAMP  ACT 

same  thing,  the  fruit  of  whose  labor  and  industry- 
may  be  lawfully  taken  from  them  without  their 
consent,  and  they  justly  punished  if  they  refuse 
to  surrender  it  on  demand,  or  apply  it  to  other 
purposes  than  those  which  their  masters,  of  their 
mere  grace  and  pleasure,  see  fit  to  allow.  Nor  are 
there  many  American  understandings  acute  enough 
to  distinguish  any  material  difference  between  their 
being  done  by  a  single  person,  under  the  title  of  an 
absolute  monarch,  and  done  by  a  far-distant  legislature 
consisting  of  many  persons,  in  which  they  are  not  rep- 
resented ;  and  the  members  whereof,  instead  of  feeling, 
and  sharing  equally  with  them  in  the  burden  thus 
imposed,  are  eased  of  their  own  in  proportion  to  the 
greatness  and  weight  of  it.  It  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  ancient  Greeks  or  Romans,  or  any  other 
nation  in  which  slavery  was  allowed,  carried  their  idea 
of  it  much  farther  than  this.  So  that  our  late  appre- 
hensions, and  universal  consternation,  on  account  of 
ourselves  and  posterity,  were  far,  very  far  indeed, 
from  being  groundless.  For  what  is  there  in  this 
world  more  wretched,  than  for  those  who  were  born 
free,  and  have  a  right  to  continue  so,  to  be  made  slaves 
themselves,  and  to  think  of  leaving  a  race  of  slaves 
behind  them;  even  though  it  be  to  masters,  con- 
fessedly the  most  humane  and  generous  in  the  world? 
Or  what  wonder  is  it,  if  after  groaning  with  a  low 
voice  for  a  while  to  no  purpose,  we  at  length  groaned 
so  loudly  as  to  be  heard  more  than  three  thousand 
miles;  and  to  be  pitied  throughout  Europe,  wherever 
it  is  not  hazardous  to  mention  even  the  name  of  liberty, 
unless  it  be  to  reproach  it,  as  only  another  name  for 
sedition,  faction  or  rebellion? 


By  JONATHAN    MAYHEW  201 

The  repeal,  the  repeal,  has  at  once,  in  a  good 
measure,  restored  things  to  order,  and  composed  our 
minds  by  removing  the  chief  ground  of  our  fears. 
The  course  of  justice  between  man  and  man  is  no 
longer  obstructed;  commerce  lifts  up  her  head, 
adorned  with  golden  tresses,  pearls,  and  precious 
stones.  All  things  that  went  on  right  before  are 
returning  gradually  to  their  former  course;  those  that 
did  not  we  have  reason  to  hope  will  go  on  better  now; 
almost  every  person  you  meet  wears  the  smiles  of 
contentment  and  joy;  and  even  our  slaves  rejoice  as 
though  they  had  received  their  manumission.  Indeed, 
all  the  lovers  of  liberty  in  Europe,  in  the  world,  have 
reason  to  rejoice ;  the  cause  is,  in  some  measure,  com- 
mon to  them  and  us.  Blessed  revolution!  glorious 
change!  How  great  are  our  obligations  for  it  to  the 
Supreme  Governor  of  the  world!  He  hath  given  us 
beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil  of  gladness  for  the  spirit 
of  heaviness.  He  hath  turned  our  groans  into  songs, 
our  mourning  into  dancing.  He  hath  put  off  our  sack- 
cloth, and  girded  us  with  gladness,  to  the  end  that  our 
tongues,  our  glory  may  sing  praises  to  him, 


THE     SECRET     OF     MURDER.       By    DANIEL 
WEBSTER. 

HE  has  done  the  murder.    No  eye  has  seen  him, 
no  ear  has  heard  him.     The  secret  is  his  own, 
and  it  is  safe! 

Ah!  Gentlemen,  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake.  Such 
a  secret  can  be  safe  nowhere.  The  whole  creation  of 
God  has  neither  nook  nor  corner  where  the  guilty  can 
bestow  it,  and  say  it  is  safe.  Not  to  speak  of  that  eye 
which  pierces  through  all  disguises,  and  beholds  every- 
thing as  in  the  splendor  of  noon,  such  secrets  of  guilt 
are  never  safe  from  detection,  even  by  men.  True  it 
is,  generally  speaking,  that  "murder  will  out."  True 
it  is,  that  Providence  hath  so  ordained,  and  doth  so 
govern  things,  that  those  who  break  the  great  law  of 
Heaven  by  shedding  man's  blood,  seldom  succeed  in 
avoiding  discovery.  Especially,  in  a  case  exciting  so 
much  attention  as  this,  discovery  must  come,  and  will 
come,  sooner  or  later.  A  thousand  eyes  turn  at  once 
to  explore  every  man,  everything,  every  circumstance, 
connected  with  the  time  and  place;  a  thousand  ears 
catch  every  whisper;  a  thousand  excited  minds 
intensely  dwell  on  the  scene,  shedding  all  their  light, 
and  ready  to  kindle  the  slightest  circumstance  into  a 
blaze  of  discovery.  Meantime  the  guilty  soul  cannot 
keep  its  own  secret.  It  is  false  to  itself ;  or  rather  it 
feels  an  irresistible  impulse  of  conscience  to  be  true  to 
itself.  It  labors  under  its  guilty  possession,  and  knows 
not  what  to  do  with  it.  The  human  heart  was  not 
made  for  the  residence  of  such  an  inhabitant.  It  finds 
itself  preyed  on  by  a  torment,  which  it  dares  not 
acknowledge  to  God  or  man.  A  vulture  is  devouring 
it,   and  it  can  ask]  no  sympathy  or  assistance,  either 

202 


By  DANIEL   WEBSTER  203 

from  heaven  or  earth.  The  secret  which  the  murderer 
possesses  soon  comes  to  possess  him ;  and,  like  the  evil 
spirits  of  which  we  read,  it  overcomes  him,  and  leads 
him  whithersoever  it  will.  He  feels  it  beating  at  his 
heart,  rising  to  his  throat,  and  demanding  disclosure. 
He  thinks  the  whole  world  sees  it  in  his  face,  reads  it 
in  his  eyes,  and  almost  hears  its  workings  in  the  very 
silence  of  his  thoughts.  It  has  become  his  master.  It 
betrays  his  discretion,  it  breaks  down  his  courage,  it 
conquers  his  prudence.  When  suspicions  from  with- 
out begin  to  embarrass  him,  and  the  net  of  circum- 
stance to  entangle  him,  the  fatal  secret  struggles  with 
still  greater  violence  to  burst  forth.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed, it  will  be  confessed ;  there  is  no  refuge  from 
confession  but  suicide,  and  suicide  is  confession. 


THE  OLD  GRUDGE  AGAINST  ENGLAND.   By 
RUFUS  CHOATE. 

NO,  sir,  we  are  above  all  this.  Let  the  Highland 
clansman,  half-naked,  half-civilized,  half-blinded 
by  the  peat-smoke  of  his  cavern,  have  his  hereditary- 
enemy  and  his  hereditary  enmity,  and  keep  the  keen, 
deep,  and  precious  hatred,  set  on  fire  of  hell,  alive  if 
he  can ;  let  the  North  American  Indian  have  his,  and 
hand  it  down  from  father  to  son,  by  Heaven  knows 
what  s)^mbols  of  alligators,  and  rattlesnakes,  and  war- 
clubs  smeared  with  vermilion  and  entwined  with 
scarlet;  let  such  a  country  as  Poland,  cloven  to  the 
earth,  the  armed  heel  on  her  radiant  forehead,  her 
body  dead,  her  soul  incapable  to  die — let  her  remem- 
ber the  wrongs  of  days  long  past;  let  the  lost  and 
wandering  tribes  of  Israel  remember  theirs — the 
manliness  and  the  sympathy  of  the  world  may  allow 
or  pardon  this  to  them:  but  shall  America,  young, 
free,  and  prosperous,  just  setting  out  on  the  highway 
of  Heaven,  "decorating  and  cheering  the  elevated 
sphere  she  just  begins  to  move  in,  glittering  like  the 
morning  star,  full  of  life  and  joy" — shall  she  be  sup- 
posed to  be  polluting  and  corroding  her  noble  and 
happy  heart,  by  moping  over  old  stories  of  stamp-act, 
and  the  tax,  and  the  firing  of  the  Leopard  on  the 
Chesapeake  in  time  of  peace?  No,  sir;  no,  sir;  a 
thousand  times.  No!  We  are  born  to  happier  feelings. 
We  look  on  England  as  we  look  on  France.  We  look 
on  them  from  our  new  world,  not  unrenowned,  yet  a 
new  world  still ;  and  the  blood  mounts  to  our  cheeks, 
our  eyes  swim,  our  voices  are  stifled  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  so  much  glory;  their  trophies  will  not  let  us 
sleep,  but  there  is  no  hatred  at  all — no  hatred ;  all  for 

204 


By  RUFUS   CHOATE  205 

honor,  nothing  for  hate.  We  have,  we  can  have,  no 
barbarian  memory  of  wrongs,  for  which  brave  men 
have  made  the  last  expiation  to  the  brave. 


ADDRESS  AT  THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE 
STATUE  OF  RUFUS  CHOATE.  Reprinted  with 
permission.     By  JOSEPH  H.  CHOATE. 

I  DEEM  it  a  very  great  honor  to  have  been  invited 
by  the  Suffolk  Bar  Association  to  take  part  on 
this  occasion  in  honor  of  him  who  still  stands  as  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  ornaments  of  the  American  Bar  in 
its  annals  of  two  centuries.  Bearing  his  name  and 
lineage,  and  owing  to  him,  as  I  do,  more  than  to  any 
other  man  or  men — to  his  example  and  inspiration,  to 
his  sympathy  and  helping  hand — whatever  success  has 
attended  my  own  professional  efforts,  I  could  not 
refuse  the  invitation  to  come  here  to-day  to  the  dedica- 
tion of  this  statue,  which  shall  stand  for  centuries  to 
come,  and  convey  to  the  generations  who  knew  him 
not  some  idea  of  the  figure  and  the  features  of  Rufus 
Choate.  Neither  bronze  nor  marble  can  do  him  jus- 
tice. Not  Rembrandt  himself  could  reproduce  the 
man  as  we  knew  and  loved  him — for  until  he  lay  upon 
his  death-bed  he  was  all  action,  the  "noble,  divine, 
godlike  action"  of  the  orator — and  the  still  life  of  art 
could  never  really  represent  him  as  he  was. 

It  is  forty  years  since  he  strode  these  ancient  streets 
with  his  majestic  step — forty  years  since  the  marvellous 
music  of  his  voice  was  heard  by  the  living  ear — and 
those  of  us  who,  as  students  and  youthful  disciples, 
followed  his  footsteps,  and  listened  to  his  eloquence, 
and  almost  worshipped  his  presence,  whose  ideal  and 
idol  he  was,  are  already  many  years  older  than  he 
lived  to  be;  but  there  must  be  a  few  still  living,  and 
present  here  to-day,  who  were  in  the  admiring  crowds 
that  hung  with  rapture  on  his  lips — in  the  courts  of 
justice,  in  the  densely  packed  assembly,  in  the  Senate, 

206 


By  JOSEPH    H.    CHOATE  207 

in  the  Constitutional  Convention,  or  in  Faneuil  Hall 
consecrated  to  Freedom — and  who  can  still  recall, 
among  life's  most  cherished  memories,  the  tones  of 
that  matchless  voice,  that  pallid  face  illuminated  with 
rare  intelligence,  the  flashing  glance  of  his  dark  eye, 
and  the  light  of  his  bewitching  smile.  But,  in  a 
decade  or  two  more,  these  lingering  witnesses  of  his 
glory  and  his  triumphs  will  have  passed  on,  and  to  the 
next  generation  he  will  be  but  a  name  and  a  statue, 
enshrined  in  fame's  temple  with  Cicero  and  Burke, 
with  Otis  and  Hamilton  and  Webster,  with  Pinkney 
and  Wirt,  whose  words  and  thoughts  he  loved  to  study 
and  to  master. 

Many  a  noted  orator,  many  a  great  lawyer,  has  been 
lost  in  oblivion  in  forty  years  after  the  grave  closed 
over  him,  but  I  venture  to  believe  that  the  Bar  of 
Suffolk,  ay,  the  whole  Bar  of  America,  and  the  people 
of  Massachusetts,  have  kept  the  memory  of  no  other 
man  alive  and  green  so  long,  so  vividly  and  so  lov- 
ingly, as  that  of  Rufus  Choate.  Many  of  his  character- 
istic utterances  have  become  proverbial,  and  the 
flashes  of  his  wit,  the  play  of  his  fancy  and  the 
gorgeous  pictures  of  his  imagination  are  the  constant 
themes  of  reminiscence,  wherever  American  lawyers 
assemble  for  social  converse. 

How  it  was  that  such  an  exotic  nature,  so  ardent  and 
tropical  in  all  its  manifestations,  so  truly  southern  and 
Italian  in  its  impulses,  and  at  the  same  time  so  robust 
and  sturdy  in  its  strength,  could  have  been  produced 
upon  the  bleak  and  barren  soil  of  our  northern  cape, 
and  nurtured  under  the  chilling  blasts  of  its  east 
winds,  is  a  mystery  insoluble.  Truly,  "this  is  the 
Lord's  doing,  and  it  is  marvellous  in  our  eyes."     In 


2o8  ADDRESS  at  an   UNVEILING 

one  of  his  speeches  in  the  Senate,  he  draws  the  distinc- 
tion between  "the  cool  and  slow  New  England  men, 
and  the  mercurial  children  of  the  sun,  who  sat  down 
side  by  side  in  the  presence  of  Washington,  to  form 
our  more  perfect  union."  If  ever  there  was  a 
mercurial  child  of  the  sun  it  was  himself  most  happily- 
described.  I  am  one  of  those  who  believe  that  the 
stuff  that  a  man  is  made  of  has  more  to  do  with  his 
career  than  any  education  or  environment.  The 
greatness  that  is  achieved,  oris  thrust  upon  some  men, 
dwindles  before  that  of  him  who  is  born  great.  His 
horoscope  was  propitious.  The  stars  in  their  courses 
fought  for  him.  The  birthmark  of  genius,  distinct  and 
ineffaceable,  was  on  his  brow.  He  came  of  a  long 
line  of  pious  and  devout  ancestors,  whose  living  was 
as  plain  as  their  thinking  was  high.  It  was  from 
father  and  mother  that  he  derived  the  flame  of  intel- 
lect, the  glow  of  spirit  and  the  beauty  of  temperament 
that  were  so  unique. 

His  splendid  and  blazing  intellect,  fed  and  enriched 
by  constant  study  of  the  best  thoughts  of  the  great 
minds  of  the  race,  his  all-persuasive  eloquence,  his 
teeming  and  radiant  imagination,  whirling  his  hearers 
along  with  it,  and  sometimes  overpowering  himself, 
his  brilliant  and  sportive  fancy,  lighting  up  the  most 
arid  subjects  with  the  glow  of  sunrise,  his  prodigious 
and  never-failing  memory,  and  his  playful  wit,  always 
bursting  forth  with  irresistible  impulse,  have  been  the 
subject  of  scores  of  essays  and  criticisms,  all  strug- 
gling with  the  vain  effort  to  describe  and  crystallize 
the  fascinating  and  magical  charm  of  his  speech  and 
his  influence. 

But  the  occasion    and    the    place    remind    me  that 


By  JOSEPH    H.    CHOATE  209 

here  to-day  we  have  chiefly  to  do  with  him  as  a  lawyer 
and  the  advocate,  and  all  that  I  shall  presume  very 
briefly  to  suggest  is  what  this  statue  will  mean  to  the 
coming  generations  of  lawyers  and  citizens. 

And  first,  and  far  above  his  splendid  talents  and  his 
triumphant  eloquence,  I  would  place  the  character  of 
the  man— -pure,  honest,  delivered  absolutely  from  all 
the  temptations  of  sordid  and  mercenary  things,  aspir- 
ing daily  to  what  was  higher  and  better,  loathing  all 
that  was  vulgar  and  of  low  repute,  simple  as  a  child, 
and  tender  and  sympathetic  as  a  woman.  Emerson 
most  truly  says  that  character  is  far  above  intel- 
lect, and  this  man's  character  surpassed  even  his 
exalted  intellect,  and,  controlling  all  his  great  endow- 
ments, made  the  consummate  beauty  of  his  life.  I 
know  of  no  greater  tribute  ever  paid  to  a  successful 
lawyer,  than  that  which  he  received  from  Chief  Justice 
Shaw — himself  an  august  and  serene  personality,  abso- 
lutely familiar  with  his  daily  walk  and  conversation — 
in  his  account  of  the  effort  that  was  made  to  induce 
Mr.  Choate  to  give  up  his  active  and  exhausting  prac- 
tice, and  to  take  the  place  of  Professor  in  the  Harvard 
Law  School,  made  vacant  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Justice 
Story — an  effort  of  which  the  Chief  Justice,  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  corporation  of  Harvard,  was  the  principal 
promoter.  After  referring  to  him  then,  in  1847,  as 
"the  leader  of  the  Bar  in  every  department  of  forensic 
eloquence,"  and  dwelling  upon  the  great  advantages 
which  would  accrue  to  the  school  from  the  profound 
legal  learning  which  he  possessed,  he  said:  "In  the 
case  of  Mr.  Choate,  it  was  considered  quite  indispen- 
sable that  he  should  reside  in  Cambridge,  on  account  of 
the  influence  which  his  genial  manners,  his  habitual 


210  ADDRESS  «/««  UNVEILING 

presence,  and  the  force  of  his  character,  would  be 
likely  to  exert  over  the  young  men,  drawn  from  every 
part  of  the  United  States  to  listen  to  his  instructions." 
What  richer  tribute  could  there  be  to  personal  and 
professional  worth,  than  such  words  from  such  lips? 
He  was  the  fit  man  to  mould  the  characters  of  the 
youth,  not  of  the  city  or  the  State  only,  but  of  the 
whole  nation.  So  let  the  statue  stand  as  notice  to  all 
who  seek  to  enter  here,  that  the  first  requisite  of  all 
true  renown  in  our  noble  profession — renown  not  for  a 
day  or  a  life  only,  but  for  generations — is  Character. 


FUNERAL  ORATION  BY  THE  DEAD  BODY 
OF  HAMILTON.  By  GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS. 

IF  on  this  sad,  this  solemn  occasion,  I  should 
endeavor  to  move  yonr  commiseration,  it  would 
be  doing  injustice  to  that  sensibility,  which  has  been 
so  generally  and  so  justly  manifested.  Far  from 
attempting  to  excite  your  emotions,  I  must  try  to 
repress  my  own ;  and  yet,  I  fear,  that,  instead  of  the 
language  of  a  public  speaker,  you  will  hear  only  the 
lamentations  of  a  wailing  friend. 

Students  of  Columbia — he  was  in  the  ardent  pursuit 
of  knowledge  in  your  academic  shades,  when  the  first 
sound  of  the  American  war  called  him  to  the  field.  A 
young  and  unprotected  volunteer,  such  was  his  zeal, 
and  so  brilliant  his  service,  that  we  heard  his  name 
before  we  knew  his  person.  It  seemed  as  if  God  had 
called  him  suddenly  into  existence,  that  he  might 
assist  to  save  a  world! 

The  penetrating  eye  of  Washington  soon  perceived 
the  manly  spirit  which  animated  his  youthful  bosom. 
By  that  excellent  judge  of  men  he  was  selected  as  an 
Aid,  and  thus  he  became  early  acquainted  with,  and 
was  a  principal  actor  in,  the  most  important  scenes  of 
our  Revolution. 

Shortly  after  the  war,  your  favor — no,  your  discern- 
ment— called  him  to  public  office.  You  sent  him  to 
the  convention  at  Philadelphia;  he  there  assisted  in 
forming  that  constitution,  which  is  now  the  bond  of 
our  union,  the  shield  of  our  defence,  and  the  source  of 
our  prosperity. 

At  the  time  when  our  government  was  organized, 
we  were  without  funds,  though  not  without  resources. 
To  call  them  into  action,  and  establish  order  in  the 

211 


212  FUNERAL   ORATION 

finances,  Washingfton  sought  for  splendid  talents,  for 
extensive  information,  and  above  all,  he  sought  for 
sterling,  incorruptible  integrity.  All  these  he  found 
in  Hamilton.  The  system  then  adopted,  has  been  the 
subject  of  much  animadversion.  If  it  be  not  without  a 
fault,  let  it  be  remembered  that  nothing  human  is  per- 
fect. Recollect  the  circumstances  of  the  moment — 
recollect  the  conflict  of  opinion — and,  above  all, 
remember  that  the  minister  of  a  Republic  must  bend 
to  the  will  of  the  people.  The  administration  which 
Washington  formed  was  one  of  the  most  efficient,  one 
of  the  best  that  any  country  was  ever  blest  with.  And 
the  result  was  a  rapid  advance  in  power  and  pros- 
perity, of  which  there  is  no  example  in  any  other  age 
or  nation.  The  part  which  Hamilton  bore  is  uni- 
versally known. 

Brethren  of  the  Cincinnati — there  lies  our  chief! 
Let  him  still  be  our  model.  Like  him,  after  long  and 
faithful  public  services,  let  us  cheerfully  perform  the 
social  duties  of  private  life.  Oh!  he  was  mild  and 
gentle.  In  him  there  was  no  offence ;  no  guile.  His 
generous  hand  and  heart  were  open  to  all. 

Gentlemen  of  the  bar — you  have  lost  your  brightest 
ornament.  Cherish  and  imitate  his  example.  While, 
like  him,  with  justifiable  and  with  laudable  zeal,  you 
pursue  the  interests  of  your  clients,  remember,  like 
him,  the  eternal  principle  of  justice. 

Fellow-citizens — you  have  long  witnessed  his  pro- 
fessional conduct,  and  felt  his  unrivalled  eloquence. 
You  know  how  well  he  performed  the  duties  of  a 
citizen — you  know  that  he  never  courted  your  favor  by 
adulation  or  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  judgment.  You 
have    seen  him  contending  against    3''ou,   and  saving 


By  GOUVERNEUR   MORRIS  213 

your  clearest  interests  as  it  were,  in  spite  of  yourselves. 
And  you  now  feel  and  enjoy  the  benefits  resulting 
from  the  firm  energy  of  his  conduct.  Bear  this  testi- 
mony to  the  memory  of  my  departed  friend.  I  charge 
you  to  protect  his  fame.  It  is  all  he  has  left — all  that 
these  poor  orphan  children  will  inherit  from  their 
father.  But,  my  countrymen,  that  fame  may  be  a  rich 
treasure  to  you  also.  Let  it  be  the  test  by  which  to 
examine  those  who  solicit  your  favor.  Disregarding 
professions,  view  their  conduct,  and  on  a  doubtful 
occasion,  ask,  would  Hamilton  have  done  this  thing? 

You  all  know  how  he  perished.  On  this  last  scene  I 
cannot,  I  must  not  dwell.  It  might  excite  emotions 
too  strong  for  your  better  judgment.  Suffer  not  your 
indignation  to  lead  to  any  act  which  might  again  offend 
the  insulted  majesty  of  the  laws.  On  his  part,  as 
from  his  lips,  though  with  my  voice — for  his  voice  you 
will  hear  no  more — let  me  entreat  you  to  respect  your- 
selves. 

And  now,  ye  ministers  of  the  everlasting  God,  per- 
form your  holy  office,  and  commit  these  ashes  of  our 
departed  brother  to  the  bosom  of  the  grave. 


THE    MEN    AND    DEEDS    OF    THE    REVOLU- 
TION.    By  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

OFTEN  as  it  has  been  repeated,  it  will  bear  another 
repetition;  it  never  ought  to  be  omitted  in  the 
history  of  constitutional  liberty;  it  ought  especially  to 
be  repeated  this  day ;  —  the  various  addresses,  peti- 
tions, and  appeals,  the  correspondence,  the  resolutions, 
the  legislative  and  popular  debates,  from  1764  to  the 
declaration  of  independence,  present  a  maturity  of 
political  wisdom,  a  strength  of  argument,  a  gravity  of 
style,  a  manly  eloquence,  and  a  moral  courage,  of 
which  unquestionably  the  modern  world  affords  no 
other  example.  This  meed  of  praise,  substantially 
accorded  at  the  time  by  Lord  Chatham  in  the  British 
Parliament,  may  well  be  repeated  by  us.  For  most  of 
the  venerated  men  to  whom  it  is  paid,  it  is  but  a  pious 
tribute  to  departed  worth.  The  Lees  and  the  Henrys, 
Otis,  Quincy,  Warren,  and  Samuel  Adams,  the  men 
who  spoke  those  words  of  thrilling  power,  which  raised 
and  directed  the  storm  of  resistance,  and  rang  like  the 
voice  of  fate  across  the  Atlantic,  are  beyond  the  reach 
of  our  praise.  To  most  of  them  it  was  granted  to  wit- 
ness some  of  the  fruits  of  their  labors — such  fruits  as 
revolutions  do  not  often  bear.  Others  departed  at  an 
untimely  hour,  or  nobly  fell  in  the  onset;  too  soon  for 
this  country,  too  soon  for  everything  but  their  own 
undying  fame.  But  all  are  not  gone ;  some  still  sur- 
vive among  us,  to  hail  the  jubilee  of  the  independence 
they  declared.  Go  back,  fellow-citizens,  to  that  day 
when  Jefferson  and  Adams  composed  the  sub-com- 
mittee who  reported  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
Think  of  the  mingled  sensations  of  that  proud  but  anx- 
ious   day,    compared    with    the   joy   of    this.       What 

214 


By  EDWARD    EVERETT  215 

reward,  what  crown,  what  treasure,  could  the  world 
and  all  its  kingdoms  afford,  compared  with  the  honor 
and  happiness  of  having-  been  united  in  that  commis- 
sion, and  living  to  see  its  most  wavering  hopes  turned 
into  glorious  reality!  Venerable  men,  you  have  out- 
lived the  dark  days  which  followed  your  more  than 
heroic  deed;  you  have  outlived  your  own  strenuous 
contention,  who  should  stand  first  among  the  people 
whose  liberty  you  had  vindicated!  You  have  lived  to 
bear  to  each  other  the  respect  which  the  nation  bears  to 
you  both ;  and  each  has  been  so  happy  as  to  exchange 
the  honorable  name  of  the  leader  of  a  party  for  that 
more  honorable  one,  the  Father  of  his  Country. 
While  this,  our  tribute  of  respect,  on  the  jubilee  of  our 
independence,,is  paid  to  the  grey  hairs  of  the  vener- 
able survivor  in  our  neighborhood,  let  it  not  less 
heartily  be  sped  to  him,  whose  hand  traced  the  lines  of 
that  sacred  charter,  which,  to  the  end  of  time,  has 
made  this  day  illustrious.  And  is  an  empty  profession 
of  respect  all  that  we  owe  to  the  man  who  can  show 
the  original  draught  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
of  the  United  States  of  America,  in  his  own  handwrit- 
ing? Ought  not  a  title-deed  like  this  to  become  the 
acquisition  of  the  nation?  Ought  it  not  to  be  laid  up 
in  the  public  archives?  Ought  not  the  price  at  which 
it  is  bought  to  be  a  provision  for  the  ease  and  comfort 
of  the  old  age  of  him  who  drew  it?  Ought  not  he  who, 
at  the  age  of  thirty,  declared  the  independence  of  his 
country,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  to  be  secured  by  his 
country  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  own? 

Nor  would  we,  on  the  return  of  this  eventful  day, 
forget  the  men  who,  when  the  conflict  of  council  was 
over,  stood  forward  in  that  of  arms.     Yet  let  me  not, 


2i6     MEN  a7td  DEEDS  of  the  REVOLUTION 

by  faintly  endeavouring  to  sketch,  do  deep  injustice  to 
the  story  of  their  exploits.  The  efforts  of  a  life  would 
scarce  suffice  to  draw  this  picture,  in  all  its  astonishing 
incidents,  in  all  its  mingled  colors  of  sublimity  and 
woe,  of  agony  and  triumph.  But  the  age  of  com- 
memoration is  at  hand.  The  voice  of  our  fathers' 
blood  begins  to  cry  to  us  from  beneath  the  soil  which 
it  moistened.  Time  is  bringing  forward,  in  their 
proper  relief,  the  men  and  the  deeds  of  that  high- 
souled  day.  The  generation  of  contemporary  worthies 
is  gone ;  the  crowd  of  the  unsignalized  great  and  good 
disappears;  and  the  leaders  in  war,  as  well  as  the  cabi- 
net, are  seen,  in  fancy's  eye,  to  take  their  stations  on 
the  mount  of  remembrance.  They  come  from  the 
embattled  cliffs  of  Abraham ;  they  start  from  the  heav- 
ing sods  of  Bunker's  Hill ;  they  gather  from  the  blaz- 
ing lines  of  Saratoga  and  Yorktown,  from  the 
blood-dyed  waters  of  the  Brandywine,  from  the  dreary 
snows  of  Valley  Forge,  and  all  the  hard-fought  fields 
of  the  war!  With  all  their  wounds  and  all  their 
honors,  they  rise  and  plead  with  us  for  their  brethren 
who  survive;  and  command  us,  if  indeed  we  cherish 
the  memory  of  those  who  bled  in  our  cause,  to  show 
our  gratitude,  not  by  sounding  words,  but  by  stretch- 
ing out  the  strong  arm  of  the  country's  prosperity,  to 
help  the  veteran  survivors  gently  down  to  their 
graves ! 


VALEDICTORY    ADDRESS  TO    THE    SENATE. 
By  HENRY  CLAY. 

FROM  1806,  the  period  of  my  entrance  upon  this 
noble  theatre,  with  short  intervals,  to  the  pres- 
ent time,  I  have  been  engaged  in  the  public  councils, 
at  home  or  abroad.  Of  the  services  rendered  during 
that  long  and  arduous  period  of  my  life  it  does  not 
become  me  to  speak;  history,  if  she  deign  to  notice 
me,  and  posterity,  if  the  recollection  of  my  humble 
actions  shall  be  transmitted  to  posterity,  are  the  best, 
the  truest,  and  the  most  impartial  judges. 

I  have  not  escaped  the  fate  of  other  public  men,  nor 
failed  to  incur  censure  and  detraction  of  the  bitterest, 
most  unrelenting,  and  most  malignant  character:  and 
though  not  always  insensible  to  the  pain  it  was  meant 
to  inflict,  I  have  borne  it  in  general  with  composure, 
waiting  as  I  have  done,  in  perfect  and  undoubting  con- 
fidence, for  the  ultimate  triumph  of  justice  and  of 
truth,  and  in  the  entire  persuasion  that  time  would 
settle  all  things  as  they  should  be,  and  that  whatever 
wrong  or  injustice  I  might  experience  at  the  hands  of 
man,  He  to  whom  all  hearts  are  open  and  fully 
known,  would,  by  the  inscrutable  dispensations  of  his 
providence,  rectify  all  error,  redress  all  wrong,  and 
cause  ample  justice  to  be  done. 

But  I  have  not  meanwhile  been  unsustained.  Every- 
where throughout  the  extent  of  this  great  continent  I 
have  had  cordial,  warm-hearted,  faithful,  and  devoted 
friends,  who  have  known  me,  loved  me,  and  appre- 
ciated my  motives.  To  them,  if  language  were  capa- 
ble of  fully  expressing  my  acknowledgments,  I  would 
now  offer  all  the  return  I  have  the  power  to  make  for 
their  genuine,  disinterested,  and  persevering  fidelity 

21 7 


2i8     VALEDICTORY   ADDRESS  to  the  SENATE 

and  devoted  attachment,  the  feelings  and  sentiments 
of  a  heart  overflowing  with  never-ceasing  gratitude. 
If,  however,  I  fail  in  suitable  language  to  express  my 
gratitude  to  them  for  all  the  kindness  they  have  shown 
me,  what  shall  I  say,  what  can  I  say  at  all  com- 
mensurate with  those  feelings  of  gratitude  with 
which  I  have  been  inspired  by  the  state  whose  hum- 
ble representative  and  servant  I  have  been  in  this 
chamber? 

I  emigrated  from  Virginia  to  the  State  of  Kentucky 
now  nearly  forty-five  years  ago;  I  went  as  an  orphan 
boy  who  had  not  yet  attained  the  age  of  majority;  who 
had  never  recognized  a  father's  smile,  nor  felt  his 
warm  caresses;  poor,  penniless,  without  the  favor  of 
the  great,  with  an  imperfect  and  neglected  education, 
hardly  sufficient  for  the  ordinary  business  and  com- 
mon pursuits  of  life ;  but  scarce  had  I  set  my  foot  upon 
her  generous  soil  when  I  was  embraced  with  parental 
fondness,  caressed  as  though  I  had  been  a  favorite 
child,  and  patronized  with  liberal  and  unbounded 
munificence. 

In  the  course  of  a  long  and  arduous  public  service, 
especially  during  the  last  eleven  years  in  which  I  have 
held  a  seat  in  the  Senate,  from  the  same  ardor  and 
enthusiasm  of  character,  I  have  no  doubt,  in  the  heat  of 
debate,  and  in  an  honest  endeavor  to  maintain  my  opin. 
ions  against  adverse  opinions  alike  honestly  entertained, 
as  to  the  best  course  to  be  adopted  for  the  public  welfare, 
I  may  have  often  inadvertently  and  unintentionally,  in 
moments  of  excited  debate,  made  use  of  language  that 
has  been  offensive,  and  susceptible  of  injurious  inter- 
pretation towards  my  brother  Senators.  If  there  be 
any  here  who  retain  wounded  feelings  of  injury  or  dis 


By  HENRY   CLAY  219 

satisfaction  produced  on  such  occasions,  I  beg  to  assure 
them  that  I  now  offer  the  most  ample  apology  for  any 
departure  on  my  part  from  the  established  rules  of 
parliamentary  decorum  and  courtesy.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  assure  Senators,  one  and  all,  without  excep- 
tion and  without  reserve,  that  I  retire  from  this  cham- 
ber without  carrying  with  me  a  single  feeling  of 
resentment  or  dissatisfaction  to  the  Senate  or  any  one 
of  its  members. 

In  retiring,  as  I  am  about  to  do,  forever,  from  the 
Senate,  suffer  me  to  express  my  heartfelt  wishes  that 
all  the  great  and  patriotic  objects  of  the  wise  framers 
of  our  constitution  may  be  fulfilled ;  that  the  high 
destiny  designed  for  it  may  be  fully  answered;  and 
that  its  deliberations,  now  and  hereafter,  may  eventu- 
ate in  securing  the  prosperity  of  our  beloved  country, 
in  maintaining  its  rights  and  honor  abroad,  and 
upholding  its  interests  at  home.  I  retire,  I  know,  at  a 
period  of  infinite  distress  and  embarrassment.  I 
wish  I  could  take  my  leave  of  you  under  more 
favorable  auspices;  but,  without  meaning  at  this 
time  to  say  whether  on  any  or  on  whom  reproaches 
for  the  sad  condition  of  the  country  should  fall,  I 
appeal  to  the  Senate  and  to  the  world  to  bear  testi- 
mony to  my  earnest  and  continued  exertions  to  avert 
it,  and  to  the  truth  that  no  blame  can  justly  attach 
to  me. 

May  the  most  precious  blessings  of  heaven  rest  upon 
the  whole  Senate  and  each  member  of  it,  and  may  the 
labors  of  every  one  redound  to  the  benefit  of  the  nation 
and  the  advancement  of  his  own  fame  and  renown. 
And  when  you  shall  retire  to  the  bosom  of  your  con- 
stituents,  may  you    receive  that    most  cheering  and 


220    VALEDICTORY   ADDRESS  to  the  SENATE. 

gratifying  of  all  human  rewards — their  cordial  greet- 
ing of  "Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant." 

And  now,  Mr.  President,  and  Senators,  I  bid  you  all 
a  long,  a  lasting,  and  a  friendly  farewell. 


ULYvSSES     vS.     GRANT.      By    THOMAS     WENT- 
WORTH  HIGGINSON. 

IT  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque  moments  in  the 
history  of  Rome  when,  after  the  battle  of  Cannae 
was  lost  and  the  Roman  army  almost  annihilated — 
while  Haimibal,  the  Carthaginian  general,  was  measur- 
ing by  bushels  the  gold  rings  of  the  slain  Roman 
knights — the  v/hole  people  of  the  city  went  out  to  greet 
with  honor  their  defeated  general  Terentius  Varro, 
and  to  bear  him  a  vote  of  thanks  from  the  senate  for 
"not  having  despaired  of  the  republic." 

The  vast  obsequies  celebrated  all  over  the  land 
to-day  are  not  in  honor  of  a  defeated  general,  but  of  a 
victorious  one ;  yet  the  ground  of  gratitude  is  the  same 
as  in  that  Roman  pageant.  Our  civil  war,  like  that 
between  Rome  and  Carthage,  began  in  defeat  and  was 
transformed  into  victory,  because  he  whom  we  cele- 
brate did  not  despair  of  the  republic.  From  the  time 
when  his  successes  at  Fort  Donelson  and  Vicksburg 
first  turned  the  tide  of  adversity,  until  the  day  when 
he  received  Lee's  surrender,  it  was  to  him  we  looked. 
Nor  was  this  all.  There  was  in  all  this  something 
more  than  mere  generalship.  Generalship  is  undoubt- 
edly a  special  gift,  almost  amounting  to  genius — a  man 
is  born  to  it,  as  he  is  for  poetry,  or  chess-playing,  or 
commerce ;  and  as  in  those  other  vocations,  so  in  this, 
his  success  in  one  direction  does  not  prove  him  equally 
strong  in  all.  There  are  many  ways  in  which  General 
Grant  does  not  rank  with  the  greatest  of  the  sons  of 
men.  He  was  wanting  in  many  of  the  gifts  and  even 
tastes  which  raise  man  to  his  highest;  he  did  not 
greatly  care  for  poetry,  philosophy,  music,  painting, 
sculpture,  natural  science.     The  one  art  for  which  he 

?2r 


222  ULYSSES  S.    GRANT 

had  a  genius  is  one  that  must  be  fleeting  and  perish- 
able, compared  to  these ;  for  the  human  race  must  in 
its  progress  outgrow  war.  But  a  remarkable  personal 
quality  never  can  be  ignored ;  if  not  shown  in  one  way 
it  will  be  shown  in  another;  and  this  personal  quality 
Grant  had.     Let  us  analyze  some  of  its  aspects. 

He  was  great,  in  the  first  place,  through  the  mere 
scale  of  his  work.  His  number  of  troops,  the  vast 
area  of  his  operations,  surpassed  what  the  world  had 
before  seen.  When  he  took  15,000  prisoners  at  Fort 
Donelson,  the  capture  was  three  times  as  large  as  when 
Burgoyne  surrendered,  in  the  only  American  battle 
thought  important  enough  to  be  mentioned  by  Sir 
Edward  Creasy  in  his  "Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the 
World."  When,  on  July  4,  1863,  he  took  Vicksburg, 
he  received  what  was  then  claimed  to  be  the  greatest 
capture  of  men  and  armament  since  the  invention  of 
gunpowder,  and  perhaps  since  the  beginning  of 
recorded  history.  He  captured  15  generals,  31,600 
soldiers  and  172  cannon.  For  victories  less  than  this 
Julius  Caesar  was  made  dictator  for  ten  years,  and  his 
statue  was  carried  in  processions  with  those  of  the 
immortal  gods.  Caesar  at  Pharsalia  took  but  24,000 
prisoners;  Napoleon  at  Ulm,  23,000;  Hannibal  at 
Cannae,  but  20,000.  Yet  these  in  Grant's  case  were 
but  special  victories.  How  great,  then,  his  power 
when  at  the  head  of  the  armies  of  the  United  States! 
Neither  of  these  three  great  commanders  ever  directed 
the  movements  of  a  million  men.  The  mere  coarse 
estimate  of  numbers,  therefore,  is  the  first  measure  of 
Grant's  fame. 

But  mere  numbers  are  a  subordinate  matter.  He 
surpassed  his  predecessors  also  in  the  dignity  of  the 


By  THOMAS   WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON       223 

object  for  which  he  fought.  The  three  great  generals 
of  the  world  are  usually  enumerated — following 
Macaulay — as  being  Caesar,  Cromwell  and  Napoleon. 
Two  of  these  fought  in  wars  of  mere  conquest,  and 
the  contests  of  the  third  were  marred  by  a  gloomy 
fanaticism,  by  cruelty  and  by  selfishness.  General 
Grant  fought  to  restore  a  nation,  that  nation  being  the 
hope  of  the  world.  And  he  restored  it.  His  work  was 
as  complete  as  it  was  important.  Caesar  died  by 
violence;  Napoleon  died  defeated;  Cromwell's  work 
crumbled  to  pieces  when  his  hand  was  cold.  Grant's 
career  triumphed  in  its  ending;  it  is  at  its  height 
to-day.  It  was  finely  said  by  a  Massachusetts  states- 
man that  we  did  not  fight  to  bring  our  opponents  to 
our  feet,  but  only  to  our  side.  Grant  to-day  brings  his 
opponents  literally  to  his  side,  when  they  act  as  pall- 
bearers around  his  coffin. 

The  next  thing  remarkable  about  him  was  the  spirit 
in  which  he  fought.  He  belonged  in  his  whole  temper- 
ament to  the  Anglo-Saxon  or  Germanic  type  of  gen- 
erals, and  not  to  the  French  or  Latin  type. 

When  we  come  to  the  mere  executive  qualities 
involved  in  fighting,  we  find  that  Grant  habitually 
combined  in  action  two  things  rarely  brought  together 
— quickness  and  perseverance.  That  could  be  said  of 
him  which  Malcolm  McLeod  said  of  Charles  Edward, 
the  Pretender:  "He  is  the  bravest  man,  not  to  be  rash, 
and  the  most  cautious  man,  not  to  be  a  coward,  that  I 
ever  saw."  He  did  not  have  the  visible  and  con- 
spicuous dash  of  Sherman  or  Sheridan;  he  was  rather 
the  kind  of  man  whom  they  needed  to  have  behind 
them.  But  in  quickness  of  apprehension  and  action, 
where   this    quality    was    needed,   he    was    not   their 


224  ULYSSES   S.    GRANT 

inferior,  if  they  were  even  his  equals.  He  owed  to  it 
his  first  conspicuous  victory  at  Fort  Donelson.  Look- 
ing at  the  knapsacks  of  the  slain  enemy,  he  discovered 
that  they  held  three  days'  rations,  and  knew,  there- 
fore, that  they  were  trying  to  get  away.  Under  this 
stimulus  he  renewed  the  attack,  and  the  day  was  won. 

Moreover,  it  is  to  be  noticed  that  he  was,  in  all  his 
action  as  a  commander,  essentially  original — a  man  of 
initiative,  not  of  routine.  He  was  singularly  free  from 
the  habit  of  depending  on  others. 

And  to  crown  all  these  qualities  was  added  one 
more,  that  of  personal  modesty.  When,  at  Hamburg, 
Germany,  he  was  toasted  as  "the  man  who  had  saved 
the  nation,"  he  replied,  "What  saved  the  Union  was 
the  coming  forward  of  the  young  men  of  the  country." 
He  put  down  the  pride  of  the  German  officers,  the 
most  self-sufficient  military  aristocracy  of  the  world, 
by  quietly  disclaiming  the  assumption  of  being  a 
soldier  at  all.  He  said  to  Bismarck:  "I  am  more  a 
farmer  than  a  soldier.  I  take  little  or  no  interest  in 
military  affairs,  and,  though  I  entered  the  army  thirty- 
five  years  ago  and  have  been  in  two  wars — the  Mexican 
as  a  young  lieutenant,  and  later  (mark  the  exquisite 
moderation  of  that  "and  later")  "I  never  went  into  the 
army  without  regret,  and  never  retired  without  pleas- 
ure." Such  a  remark  from  the  greatest  captain  of  the 
age  disarmed  even  German  criticism. 

He  told  Bismarck,  as  we  have  seen,  that  he  never 
entered  on  a  war  without  regret  or  retired  from  it  with- 
out pleasure.  But  he  was  destined  to  enter  on  just  one 
more  campaign — against  pain  and  disease  combined 
with  sudden  poverty.  It  was  a  formidable  coalition. 
It  is  sometimes  said  that  it  is  easier  to  die  well  than  to 


By  THOMAS   WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON       225 

live  well;  but  it  is  harder  than  either  to  grow  old, 
knowing-  that  one's  great  period  of  action  is  past,  and 
weighed  down  with  the  double  weight  of  hopeless 
financial  failure  and  irremediable  bodily  pain.  Either 
bankruptcy  or  physical  torture  has  by  itself  crushed 
many  a  man  morally  and  mentally;  but  Grant's  great- 
est campaign  was  when  he  resisted  them  both.  Upon 
such  a  campaign  as  this  he  might  well,  as  he  said, 
shrink  from  entering;  but  having  been  obliged  to 
enter  upon  it,  he  was  still  Grant.  Thousands  of  Amer- 
icans have  felt  a  sense  of  nearness  to  him  and  a  sense 
of  pride  in  him  during  the  last  few  months  such  as 
they  never  felt  before.  He  was  already  a  hero  in  war 
to  us.  The  last  few  months  have  made  him  a  hero  of 
peace,  miles  pacificus. 

It  has  been  already  said  that  the  supreme  generals 
of  the  world  were  Caesar,  Cromwell  and  Napoleon. 
Grant  was  behind  all  three  of  these  in  variety  of  culti- 
vation and  in  many  of  the  qualities  that  make  a  man's 
biography  picturesque  and  fascinating.  He  may  be 
said  to  have  seemed  a  little  prosaic,  compared  with 
any  one  of  these.  But  in  moral  qualities  he  was  above 
them  all;  more  truthful,  more  unselfish,  more  simple, 
more  humane.  He  fell  short  of  Washington  in  this, 
that  he  was  not  equally  great  in  war  and  statesman- 
ship; but  his  qualities  were  within  reach  of  all;  his 
very  defects  were  within  reach  of  all;  and  he  will 
long  be  with  Washington  and  Lincoln  the  typical 
American  in  the  public  eyes.  It  is  this  typical  quality 
after  all  that  is  most  valuable.  His  fame  rests  upon 
the  broadest  and  surest  of  all  pedestals,  as  broad  as 
common  humanity.  He  seems  greatest  becau-^e  he 
was  no  detached  or  ideal  hero,  but  simply  the  repre- 
sentative of  us  alL 


ADDRESS     BEFORE     THE     NEW    YORK    HIS- 
TORICAL   SOCIETY.      By  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

UNBORN  ages  and  visions  of  glory  crowd  upon 
my  soul,  the  realizationof  all  which,  however,  is 
in  the  hands  and  good  pleasure  of  Almighty  God,  but, 
under  his  divine  blessing,  it  will  be  dependent  on  the 
character  and  the  virtues  of  ourselves,  and  of  our 
posterity. 

If  classical  history  has  been  found  to  be,  is  now,  and 
shall  continue  to  be,  the  concomitant  of  free  institu- 
tions, and  of  popular  eloquence,  what  a  field  is  opening 
to  us  for  another  Herodotus,  another  Thucydides,  and 
another  Livy!  And  let  me  say,  gentlemen,  that  if  we, 
and  our  posterity,  shall  be  true  to  the  Christian  reli- 
gion, if  we  and  they  shall  live  always  in  the  fear  of  God, 
and  shall  respect  his  commandments,  if  we,  and  they, 
shall  maintain  just,  moral  sentiments,  and  such  con- 
scientious convictions  of  duty  as  shall  control  the  heart 
and  life,  we  may  have  the  highest  hopes  of  the  future 
fortunes  of  our  country;  and  if  we  maintain  those 
institutions  of  government  and  that  political  union, 
exceeding  all  praise  as  much  as  it  exceeds  all  former 
examples  of  political  associations,  we  may  be  sure  of 
one  thing,  that,  while  our  country  furnishes  materials 
for  a  thousand  masters  of  the  Historic  Art,  it  will 
afford  no  topic  for  a  Gibbon.  It  will  have  no  Decline 
and  Fall.  It  will  go  on  prospering  and  to  prosper. 
But,  if  we  and  our  posterity  reject  religious  instruction 
and  authority,  violate  the  rules  of  eternal  justice,  trifle 
with  the  injunctions  of  morality,  and  recklessly  destroy 
the  political  constitution  which  holds  us  together,  no 
man  can  tell  how  sudden  a  catastrophe  may  over- 
whelm us,  that  shall  bury  all  our  glory  in  profound 

226 


B}'  DANIEL   WEBSTER  227 

obscurity.  Should  that  catastrophe  happen,  let  it 
have  no  history.  Let  the  horrible  narrative  never  be 
written !  Let  its  fate  be  like  that  of  the  lost  books  of 
Livy,  which  no  human  eye  shall  ever  read,  or  the 
missing  Pleiad,  of  which  no  man  can  ever  know  more, 
than  that  it  is  lost,  and  lost  forever! 


THE  LEADERSHIP  OF  EDUCATED  MEN. 
From  "Orations  and  Addresses  of  George  William 
Curtis."  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.  By 
GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

EVERY  educated  man  is  aware  of  a  profound  pop- 
ular distrust  of  the  courage  and  sagacity  of  the 
educated  class.  Franklin  and  Lincoln  are  good 
enough  for  us,  exclaims  this  jealous  skepticism ;  as  if 
Franklin  and  Lincoln  did  not  laboriously  repair  by 
vigorous  study  the  want  of  early  opportunity.  The 
scholar  appealing  to  experience  is  proudly  told  to  close 
his  books,  for  what  has  America  to  do  with  experi- 
ence? as  if  books  were  not  the  ever-burning  lamps  of 
accumulated  wisdom.  When  Voltaire  was  insulted  by 
the  London  mob,  he  turned  at  his  door  and  compli- 
mented them  upon  the  nobleness  of  their  national 
character,  their  glorious  constitution,  and  their  love  of 
liberty.  The  London  mob  did  not  feel  the  sarcasm. 
But  when  I  hear  that  America  may  scorn  experience 
because  she  is  a  law  to  herself,  I  remember  that  a  few 
years  ago  a  foreign  observer  came  to  the  city  of  Wash- 
ington, and  said:  "I  did  not  fully  comprehend  your 
greatness  until  I  saw  your  Congress.  Then  I  felt  that 
if  you  could  stand  that  you  could  stand  anything,  and 
I  understood  the  saying  that  God  takes  care  of  chil- 
dren, drunken  men,  and  the  United  States." 

The  scholar  is  denounced  as  a  coward.  Humanity 
falls  among  thieves,  we  are  told,  and  the  college 
Levite,  the  educated  Pharisee,  pass  by  on  the  other 
side.  Slavery  undermines  the  Republic,  but  the 
clergy  in  America  are  the  educated  class,  and  the 
Church  makes  itself  the  bulwark  of  slavery.  Strong 
drink  slays  its  tens  of   thousands,   but  the  educated 

228 


By  GEORGE   WILLIAM    CURTIS  229 

class  leaves  the  gospel  of  temperance  to  be  preached 
by  the  ignorant  and  the  enthusiast,  as  the  English 
Establishment  left  the  preaching  of  regeneration  to 
Methodist  itinerants  in  fields  and  barns.  Vast  ques- 
tions cast  their  shadows  upon  the  future:  the  just  rela- 
tions of  capital  and  labor;  the  distribution  of  land;  the 
towering  power  of  corporate  wealth ;  reform  in  admin- 
istrative methods;  but  the  educated  class,  says  the 
critic,  instead  of  advancing  to  deal  with  them 
promptly,  wisely,  and  courageously,  and  settling  them 
as  morning  dissipates  the  night,  without  a  shock, 
leaves  them  to  be  kindled  to  fury  by  demagogues,  lifts 
a  panic  cry  of  communism,  and  sinks  paralyzed  with 
terror.  It  is  the  old  accusation.  Erasmus  was  the 
great  pioneer  of  modern  scholarship.  But  in  the 
fierce  contest  of  the  Reformation  Luther  denounced 
him  as  a  time-server  and  a  coward.  With  the  same 
feeling,  Theodore  Parker,  the  spiritual  child  of 
Luther,  asked  of  Goethe,  "Tell  me,  what  did  he  ever 
do  for  the  cause  of  man?"  and  when  nothing  remained 
for  his  country  but  the  dread  alternative  of  slavery  or 
civil  war,  Parker  exclaimed  sadly  of  the  class  to  which 
he  belonged,  "If  our  educated  men  had  done  their 
duty,  we  should  not  now  be  in  the  ghastly  condition 
we  bewail. ' ' 

Gentlemen,  we  belong  to  the  accused  class.  Its 
honor  and  dignity  are  very  precious  to  us.  Is  this 
humiliating  arraignment  true?  Does  the  educated 
class  of  America  especially  deserve  this  condemnation 
of  political  recreancy  and  moral  cowardice?  Faithless 
scholars,  laggard  colleges,  bigoted  pulpits,  there  may 
be ;  signal  instances  you  may  find  of  feebleness  and 
pusillanimity.     This  has  been  always  true. 


230      r/!^  LEADERSHIP  c?/ EDUCATED   MEN 

But  remember  what  Coleridge  said  to  Washington 
Allston,  "Never  judge  a  work  of  art  by  its  defects." 
The  proper  comment  to  make  upon  recreant  scholars 
is  that  of  Brummel's  valet  upon  the  tumbled  cambric 
in  his  hands,  "These  are  our  failures."  Luther, 
impatient  of  the  milder  spirit  of  Erasmus  and  Colet 
and  Sir  Thomas  More,  might  well  have  called  them 
our  failures,  because  he  was  of  their  class,  and  while 
they  counselled  moderation,  his  fiery  and  impetuous 
soul  sought  to  seize  triple-crowned  error  and  drag  it 
from  its  throne.  But  Luther  was  no  less  a  scholar, 
and  stands  equally  with  them  for  the  scholarly  class 
and  the  heroism  of  educated  men.  Even  Erasmus  said 
of  him  with  friendly  wit,  "He  has  hit  the  Pope  on  the 
crown  and  the  monks  on  the  belly."  If  the  cowled 
scholars  of  the  Church  rejected  him,  and  universities 
under  their  control  renounced  and  condemned  him,  yet 
Luther  is  justified  in  saying,  as  he  sweeps  his  hand 
across  them  and  speaks  for  himself  and  for  the  schol- 
ars who  stood  with  him,  "These  are  not  our  repre- 
sentatives; these  are  our  failures." 

But  still  further,  it  is  educated  citizenship  which, 
while  defining  the  rightful  limitation  of  the  power  of 
the  majority,  is  most  loyal  to  its  legitimate  authority, 
and  foremost  always  in  rescuing  it  from  the  treachery 
of  political  peddlers  and  parasites.  The  rural  states- 
men who  founded  the  Republic  saw  in  vision  a  homo- 
geneous and  intelligent  community,  the  peace  and 
prosperity  and  intelligence  of  the  State  reflected  in  the 
virtue  and  wisdom  of  the  government.  But  is  this  our 
actual  America  or  a  glimpse  of  Arcadia?  Is  this  the 
United  States  or  Plato's  Republic  or  Harrington's 
Oceana  or  Sir  Thomas  More's  Utopia?    What  are  the 


By  GEORGE   WILLIAM   CURTIS  231 

political  maxims  of  the  hour?  In  Rome,  do  as  the 
Romans  do.  Fight  fire  with  fire.  Beat  the  devil  with 
his  own  weapons.  Take  men  as  they  are,  and  don't 
affect  superior  goodness.  Beware  of  the  politics  of  the 
moon  and  of  Sunday-school  statesmanship.  This  is 
our  current  political  wisdom  and  the  results  are 
familiar.  "This  is  a  nasty  State,"  cries  the  eager 
partisan,  "and  I  hope  we  have  done  nasty  work  enough 
to  carry  it. "  "The  conduct  of  the  opposition,"  says 
another,  "was  infamous.  They  resorted  to  every  kind 
of  base  and  contemptible  means,  and,  thank  God,  we 
have  beaten  them  at  their  own  game."  The  majority 
is  overthrown  by  the  political  machinery  intended  to 
secure  its  will.  The  machinery  is  oiled  by  corruption 
and  grinds  the  honest  majority  to  powder.  And  it  is 
educated  citizenship,  the  wisdom  and  energy  of  men 
who  are  classed  as  prigs,  pedants,  and  impracticables, 
which  is  first  and  most  efficient  in  breaking  the 
machinery  and  releasing  the  majority.  It  was  this 
which  rescued  New  York  from  Tweed,  and  which 
everywhere  challenges  and  demolishes  a  Tweed 
tyranny  by  whatever  name  it  may  be  known. 

Take  from  the  country  at  this  moment  the  educated 
power,  which  is  contemned  as  romantic  and  senti- 
mental, and  you  would  take  from  the  army  its  general, 
from  the  ship  its  compass,  from  national  action  its 
moral  mainspring.  It  is  not  the  demagogue  and  the 
shouting  rabble;  it  is  the  people  heeding  the  word  of 
the  thinker  and  the  lesson  of  experience,  which  secures 
the  welfare  of  the  American  republic  and  enlarges 
human  liberty. 


THE  BETTER  PART.     Reprinted  with  permission. 
By  BOOKER  T.  WASHINGTON. 

MR.  CHAIRMAN,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen:  On  an 
important  occasion  in  the  life  of  the  Master, 
when  it  fell  to  Him  to  pronounce  judgment  on  two 
courses  of  action,  these  memorable  words  fell  from  His 
lips:  "And  Mary  hath  chosen  the  better  part."  This 
was  the  supreme  test  in  the  case  of  an  individual.  It 
is  the  highest  test  in  the  case  of  a  race  or  nation.  Let 
us  apply  this  test  to  the  American  Negro. 

In  the  life  of  our  Republic,  when  he  has  had  the 
opportunity  to  choose,  has  it  been  the  better  or  worse 
part?  When  in  the  childhood  of  this  nation  the  Negro 
was  asked  to  submit  to  slavery  or  choose  death  and 
extinction,  as  did  the  aborigines,  he  chose  the  better 
part,  that  which  perpetuated  the  race. 

When  in  1776  the  Negro  was  asked  to  decide  between 
British  oppression  and  American  independence,  we 
find  him  choosing  the  better  part,  and  Crispus  Attucks, 
a  Negro,  was  the  first  to  shed  his  blood  on  State  Street, 
Boston,  that  the  white  American  might  enjoy  liberty 
forever,  though  his  race  remained  in  slavery. 

When  in  18 14  at  New  Orleans  the  test  of  patriotism 
came  again,  we  find  the  Negro  choosing  the  better 
part,  and  Gen.  Andrew  Jackson  himself  testifying  that 
no  heart  was  more  loyal  and  no  arm  more  strong  and 
useful  in  defence  of  righteousness. 

When  the  long  and  memorable  struggle  came 
between  union  and  separation,  when  he  knew  that 
victory  on  the  one  hand  meant  freedom,  and  defeat  on 
the  other  his  continued  enslavement,  with  a  full  knowl- 
edge of  the  portentous  meaning  of  it  all,  when  the 
suggestion  and  the  temptation  came  to  burn  the  home 

232 


By  BOOKER   T.    WASHINGTON  233 

and  massacre  wife  and  children  during  the  absence  of 
the  master  in  battle,  and  thus  insure  his  liberty,  we 
find  him  choosing  the  better  part,  and  for  four  long 
years  protecting  and  supporting  the  helpless,  defence- 
less ones  entrusted  to  his  care. 

When  in  1863  the  cause  of  the  Union  seemed  to 
quiver  in  the  balance,  and  there  was  doubt  and  dis- 
trust, the  Negro  was  asked  to  come  to  the  rescue  in 
arms,  and  the  valor  displayed  at  Fort  Wagner  and  Port 
Hudson  and  Fort  Pillow,  testify  most  eloquently  again 
that  the  Negro  chose  the  better  part. 

When,  a  few  months  ago,  the  safety  and  honor  of 
the  Republic  were  threatened  by  a  foreign  foe,  when 
the  wail  and  anguish  of  the  oppressed  from  a  distant 
isle  reached  his  ears,  we  find  the  Negro  forgetting  his 
own  wrongs,'  forgetting  the  laws  and  customs  that 
discriminate  against  him  in  his  own  country,  and  again 
we  find  our  black  citizen  choosing  the  better  part. 
And  if  you  would  know  how  he  deported  himself  in 
the  field  at  Santiago,  apply  for  answer  to  Shafter  and 
Roosevelt  and  Wheeler.  Let  them  tell  how  the  Negro 
faced  death  and  laid  down  his  life  in  defence  of  honor 
and  humanity,  and  when  you  have  gotten  the  full 
story  of  the  heroic  conduct  of  the  Negro  in  the 
Spanish-American  war — heard  it  from  the  lips  of 
Northern  soldiers  and  Southern  soldiers,  from 
ex-abolitionist  and  ex-master,  then  decide  within 
yourselves  whether  a  race  that  is  thus  willing  to  die  for 
its  country  should  not  be  given  the  highest  oppor- 
tunity to  live  for  its  country. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  complaints  of  suffering  in  the 
camp  and  field,  suffering  from  fever  and  hunger, 
where  is  the  official  or  citizen  that  has  heard  a  word  of 


234  The  BETTER   PART 

complaint  from  the  lips  of  a  black  soldier?  The  only 
request  that  has  come  from  the  Negro  soldier  has  been 
that  he  might  be  permitted  to  replace  the  white  soldier 
when  heat  and  malaria  began  to  decimate  the  ranks 
of  the  white  regiment,  and  to  occupy  at  the  same  time 
the  post  of  greatest  danger. 

This  country  has  been  most  fortunate  in  her  vic- 
tories. She  has  twice  measured  arms  with  England 
and  has  won.  She  has  met  the  spirit  of  rebellion 
within  her  borders  and  was  victorious.  She  has  met 
the  proud  Spaniard  and  he  lies  prostrate  at  her  feet. 
All  this  is  well,  it  is  magnificent.  But  there  remains 
one  other  victory  for  Americans  to  win — a  victory  as 
far-reaching  and  important  as  any  that  has  occupied 
our  army  and  navy.  We  have  succeeded  in  every  con- 
flict, except  the  effort  to  conquer  ourselves  in  the  blot- 
ting out  of  racial  prejudices.  We  can  celebrate  the  era 
of  peace  in  no  more  effectual  way  than  by  a  firm 
resolve  on  the  part  of  Northern  men  and  Southern 
men,  black  men  and  white  men,  that  the  trenches 
which  we  together  dug  around  Santiago  shall  be  the 
eternal  burial  place  of  all  that  which  separates  us  in 
our  business  and  civil  relations.  Let  us  be  as  generous 
in  peace  as  we  have  been  brave  in  battle.  Until  we 
thus  conquer  ourselves,  I  make  no  empty  statement 
when  I  say  that  we  shall  have,  especially  in  the  South- 
ern part  of  our  country,  a  cancer  gnawing  at  the  heart 
of  the  Republic,  that  shall  one  day  prove  as  dangerous 
as  an  attack  from  an  army  without  or  within. 

In  this  presence  and  on  this  auspicious  occasion,  I 
want  to  present  the  deep  gratitude  of  nearly  ten  mil- 
lions of  my  people  to  our  wise,  patient  and  brave  Chief 
Executive  for  the  generous  manner  in  which  my  race 


By  BOOKER   T.  WASHINGTON  235 

has  been  recognized  during  this  conflict.  A  recogni- 
tion that  has  done  more  to  blot  out  sectional  and  racial 
lines  than  any  event  since  the  dawn  of  our  freedom. 

I  know  how  vain  and  impotent  is  all  abstract  talk  on 
this  subject.  In  your  efforts  to  "rise  on  stepping 
stones  of  your  dead  selves,"  we  of  the  black  race  shall 
not  leave  you  imaided.  We  shall  make  the  task  easier 
for  you  by  acquiring  property,  habits  of  thrift,  economy, 
intelligence  and  character,  by  each  making  himself 
of  individual  worth  in  his  own  community.  We  shall 
aid  you  in  this  as  we  did  a  few  days  ago  at  El  Caney 
and  Santiago,  when  we  helped  you  to  hasten  the  peace 
we  here  celebrate.  You  know  us;  you  are  not  afraid 
of  us.  When  the  crucial  test  comes,  you  are  not 
ashamed  of  us.  We  have  never  betrayed  or  deceived 
you.  You  know  that  as  it  has  been,  so  it  will  be. 
Whether  in  war  or  in  peace,  whether  in  slavery  or  in 
freedom,  we  have  always  been  loyal  to  the  Stars  and 
Stripes. 


CORN  LAWS.    By  THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD 
MACAULAY. 

GENTLEMEN,  both  the  capitalist  and  the  labourer 
have  been  gainers,  as  they  ought  to  have  been 
gainers,  by  the  diminution  in  the  price  of  bread.     But 
there  is  a  third  party,  which  ought  not  to  have  gained 
by  that  diminution,  and  yet  has  gained  very  greatly  by 
it;    and  that  party  is  Her  Majesty's  present  govern- 
ment.    It  is  for  the  interest  of  rulers  that  those  whom 
they  rule  should  be  prosperous.     But  the  prosperity 
which  we  have   lately  enjoyed  was  a  prosperity  for 
which  we  were  not  indebted  to  our  rulers.     It  came  in 
spite  of  them.     It  was  produced  by  the  cheapness  of 
that  which  they  had  laboured  to  render  dear.     Under 
pretence  of  making  us  independent  of  foreign  supply, 
they  have    established     a    system    which    makes    us 
dependent  in  the  worst  possible  way.     As  my  valued 
friend,  the   Lord  Provost,   has  justly  said,  there  is  a 
mutual  dependence  among  nations  of  which  we  cannot 
get  rid.     That  Providence  has  assigned  different  pro- 
ductions to  different  climates  is   a  truth  with  which 
everybody  is  familiar.     But  this  is  not  all.     Even  in  the 
same  climate  different  productions  belong  to  different 
stages  of  civilization.     As  one  latitude  is  favorable  to 
the  vine  and  another  to  the  sugar-cane,  so  there  is,  in 
the   same  latitude,  a  state  of  society  in   which  it  is 
desirable  that  the  industry  of  men  should  be  almost 
entirely  directed  towards  the  cultivation  of  the  earth, 
and  another  state  of  society  in  which  it  is  desirable 
that  a  large  part  of  the  population  should  be  employed 
in  manufactures.      No  dependence  can  be  conceived 
more  natural,  more  salutary,   more  free  from  every- 
thing like  degradation  than  the  mutual    dependence 

236 


By  THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY      237 

which  exists  between  a  nation  which  has  a  boundless 
extent  of  fertile  land,  and  a  nation  which  has  a  bound- 
less command  of  machinery;  between  a  nation  whose 
business  is  to  turn  deserts  into  corn  fields,  and  a  nation 
whose  business  is  to  increase  tenfold  by  ingenious  proc- 
esses the  value  of  the  fleece  and  of  the  rude  iron  ore. 
Even  if  that  dependence  were  less  beneficial  than  it  is, 
we  must  submit  to  it ;  for  it  is  inevitable.  Make  what 
laws  we  will,  we  must  be  dependent  on  other  countries 
for  a  large  part  of  our  food.  That  point  was  decided 
when  England  ceased  to  be  an  exporting  country. 
For,  gentlemen,  it  is  demonstrable  that  none  but  a 
country  which  ordinarily  exports  food  can  be  inde- 
pendent of  foreign  supplies.  If  a  manufacturer 
determines  to  produce  ten  thousand  pair  of  stockings, 
he  will  produce  the  ten  thousand,  and  neither  more 
nor  less.  But  an  agriculturist  cannot  determine  that 
he  will  produce  ten  thousand  quarters  of  corn,  and 
neither  more  nor  less.  That  he  may  be  sure  of  having 
ten  thousand  quarters  in  a  bad  year,  he  must  sow  such 
a  quantity  of  land  that  he  will  have  much  more  than 
ten  thousand  in  a  good  year.  It  is  evident  that,  if  our 
island  does  not  in  ordinary  years  produce  many  more 
quarters  than  we  want,  jt  will  in  bad  years  produce 
fewer  quarters  than  we  want.  And  it  is  equally  evi- 
dent that  our  cultivators  will  not  produce  more  quar- 
ters of  corn  than  we  want,  imless  they  can  export  the 
surplus  at  a  profit.  Nobody  ventures  to  tell  us  that 
Great  Britain  can  be  ordinarily  an  exporting  country. 
It  follows  that  we  must  be  dependent ;  and  the  only 
question  is.  Which  is  the  best  mode  of  dependence? 
That  qiiestion  is  not  difficult  to  answer.  Go  to 
Lancashire;  see  that  multitude  of  cities,  some  of  them 


238  CORN   LAWS 

equal  in  size  to  the  capitals  of  large  kingdoms.     Look 
at  the  warehouses,  the  machinery,  the  canals,  the  rail- 
v/ays,  the  docks.     See  the  stir  of  that  hive  of  human 
beings  busily  employed  in  making,  packing,  conveying 
stuffs  which  are  to  be  worn  in  Canada  and  Caffraria, 
in  Chili  and  Java.     You  naturally  ask,   How  is  this 
immense  population,  collected  on  an  area  which  will 
not  yield  food  for  one-tenth  part  of  them,  to  be  nour- 
ished?    But  change  the  scene.     Go  beyond  the  Ohio, 
and   there  you  will  see  another    species  of  industry 
equally  extensive  and  equally  flourishing.     You  will 
see  the  wilderness  receding  fast  before  the  advancing 
tide  of  life  and  civilization,  vast  harvests  waving  round 
the  black  stumps  of  what  a  few  months  ago  was  a  path- 
less forest,  and  cottages,  barns,  mills,  rising  amidst  the 
haunts  of  the  wolf  and  the  bear.     Here  is  more  than 
enough  corn  to  feed  the  artisans  of  our  thickly  peopled 
island ;  and  most  gladly  would  the  grower  of  that  corn 
exchange  it  for  a  Sheffield  knife,  a  Birmingham  spoon, 
a  warm  coat  of  Leeds  woollen  cloth,  a  light  dress  of 
Manchester  cotton.      But   this   exchange    our    rulers 
prohibit.     They  say  to  our  manufacturing  population, 
"You  would  willingly  weave  clothes  for  the  people  of 
America,  and  they  would  gladly  sow  wheat  for  you ; 
but  we  prohibit  this  intercourse.     We  condemn  both 
your  looms  and  their  ploughs  to  inaction.      We  will 
compel  you  to  pay  a  high  price  for  a  stinted  meal.     We 
will  compel  those  who  would  gladly  be  your  purveyors 
and  your  customers  to  be  your  rivals.     We  will  compel 
them  to  turn  manufacturers  in  self-defence ;  and  when, 
in  close  imitation  of  us,  they  impose  high  duties  on  Brit- 
ish goods  for  the  protection  of  their  own  produce,  we 
will,  in  our  speeches  and  despatches,  express  wonder  and 
pity  at  their  strange  ignorance  of  political  economy." 


THE    IDEAL    LAWYER.     By  JOHN  W.  GRIGGS. 

GENTLEMEN  of  the  graduating  class  of  the  Yale 
Law  School :  I  commend  to  you  the  cultivation 
of  a  spirit  that  will  enable  you  to  take  a  healthy,  sound, 
and  cheerful  view  of  the  struggles  and  movements  of 
society,  of  law,  and  of  government,  believing  that  their 
tendency  is  toward  improvement,  not  deterioration.  I 
would  wish  you  to  realize  and  appreciate  the  humane 
direction  in  which  recent  reforms  of  jurisprudence 
have  been  progressing,  and  to  see  to  it  that,  so  far  as 
you  can  aid,  the  spirit  of  mercifulness  shall  not  be 
suffered  to  decline.  The  further  maintenance  of  the 
high  authority  and  repute  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  juris- 
prudence as  the  foundation  of  our  progress  and  pros- 
perity and  the  safeguard  of  our  liberties  is  intrusted  to 
the  bar.  The  world  will  judge  of  the  system  accord- 
ing to  the  manner  in  which  its  ministers  administer  it. 
Beyond  his  immediate  duty  to  his  client,  the  lawyer  has 
a  larger  and  wider  sphere  of  duty  to  the  State  in  illus- 
trating, supporting,  and  maintaining  the  priceless 
value  of  that  system  of  law  and  justice  which  is  the 
heritage  of  the  American  people.  As  the  character  of 
the  members  of  that  profession  is  sound,  patriotic  and 
pure,  so  will  legislation,  the  administration  of  public 
office  and  general  public  sentiment  continue  upon  lines 
of  justice,  safety  and  conservatism. 

So  I  urge  you  not  to  strive  exclusively  for  the 
pecuniary  rewards  of  your  profession,  but  to  look  for- 
ward to  a  career  of  influence  and  usefulness  that  shall 
include  your  neighborhood,  your  State,  your  country, 
within  its  beneficent  reach.  For  your  example  let  me 
commend  the  ideal  of  the  good  lawyer — I  do  not  say 
the  great,  but  the  good  lawyer — an  ideal  that  has  been 

239 


240  The  IDEAL   LAWYER 

realized  in  the  life  of  every  substantial  city  and  court, 
especially  in  the  older  neighborhoods;  a  man  of  kindly 
and  benignant  disposition,  friendly  alike  with  his  well- 
to-do  and  his  poorer  fellow-townsmen,  acquainted  with 
their  habits  and  individual  history,  and  with  a  pretty 
accurate  notion  of  their  opinions  and  prejudices  as  well 
as  of  their  ways  and  means ;  genial  and  sociable,  yet 
dignified  and  self-contained;  of  staid  and  comfortable 
appearance ;  in  manner  alert ;  in  conversation  always 
moderate  and  respectful;  shrewd  in  his  observations; 
wise,  but  with  perennial  humor  and  love  of  pleas- 
antry ;  as  a  citizen  always  concerned  and  active  in  the 
interests  of  his  town,  his  State  and  his  country;  not  an 
agitator,  nor  a  perpetual  fault-finder,  nor  giving  out 
the  intimation  that  he  is  better  or  wiser  than  others; 
but  ready  to  confer,  to  adjust,  to  agree,  to  get  the  best 
possible  if  not  the  utmost  that  is  desirable ;  to  him  the 
people  turn  in  local  emergencies  for  guidance  and 
counsel  on  their  public  affairs,  even  partisanship  fear- 
ing not  to  trust  to  his  honor  and  wisdom ;  so  free  from 
all  cause  of  offence  that  there  is  no  tongiie  to  lay  a 
word  against  his  pure  integrity — too  dignified  and 
respectful  to  tempt  familiarity;  too  genial  and  gener- 
ous to  provoke  envy  or  jealousy;  revered  by  his 
brethren  of  the  bar;  helpful  and  kindly  to  the  young; 
in  manner  suave  and  polite,  with  a  fine  courtliness  of 
the  old  flavor — what  Clarendon  described  in  John 
Hampden  as  "a  flowing  courtesy  toward  all  men"; 
successful,  of  course,  in  his  practice,  but  caring  less 
for  its  profits  than  for  the  forensic  and  intellectual 
delight  which  the  study  and  practice  of  the  law  bring 
to  him;  he  knows  much  of  the  old  "learning  in  the 
law" — can  tell  you  of  fines,  of  double  vouchers  and 


By  JOHN   W.    GRIGGS  241 

recoveries,  of  the  "Rule  in  Shelly's  Case" — though  he 
keeps  all  these  things  in  mind  as  collectors  treasure 
their  antiques  and  curios,  more  as  objects  of  art  and 
historical  interest  than  of  practical  utility.  His  mind 
is  grounded  upon  the  broad  and  deep  principles  of 
jurisprudence  rather  than  upon  "wise  saws  and  mod- 
ern instances";  but  over  all  is  reflected  the  illumina- 
tion of  a  strong  common  sense  and  a  refined  tactfulness. 
To  his  clients  he  is  an  object  of  confidence  and  real 
affection ;  the  secure  depository  of  family  secrets,  and 
the  safe  guide  and  counsellor  in  trouble  and  difficulty; 
composing,  not  stirring  up  strife,  but  when  in  actual 
trial  strong,  aggressive,  confident;  never  quibbling  or 
dissembling;  respectful  to  witnesses,  to  jurors  and  to 
judge,  as  well  as  to  his  adversary. 

In  the  judgment  and  feeling  of  the  community  there 
is  something  of  the  venerable  and  illustrious  attached 
to  his  name ;  not  for  his  learning  in  the  law  nor  for  his 
success  as  an  advocate,  nor  for  his  usefulness  to  his 
fellow-citizens  as  a  counsellor  and  guide,  but  for  the 
benignant  influence  of  his  whole  life  and  character; 
and  when  he  dies  to  every  mind  there  comes  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  epitaph  that  shall  most  fittingly  preserve 
the  estimate  which  the  people  have  formed  of  him — 
"The  just  man  and  the  counsellor." 


NAPOLEON  THE  LITTLE.     By  VICTOR  HUGO. 

I  HAVE  entered  the  lists  with  the  actual  ruler  of 
Europe,  for  it  is  well  for  the  world  that  I  should 
exhibit  the  picture.  Louis  Bonaparte  is  the  intoxica- 
tion of  triumph.  He  is  the  incarnation  of  merry  yet 
savage  despotism.  He  is  the  mad  plenitude  of  power 
seeking  for  limits,  but  finding  them  not,  neither  in 
men  nor  facts.  Louis  Bonaparte  holds  France — Urbem 
Romam  habet;  and  he  who  holds  France  holds  the 
world.  He  is  master  of  the  votes,  master  of  con- 
sciences, master  of  the  people ;  he  names  his  successor, 
does  away  with  eternity,  and  places  the  future  in  a 
sealed  envelope.  His  Senate,  his  Legislative  Body, 
with  lowered  heads,  creep  behind  him  and  lick  his 
heels.  He  takes  up  or  drops  the  bishops  and  cardinals ; 
he  tramples  upon  justice  which  curses  him,  and  upon 
judges  who  worship  him.  Thirty  eager  newspaper 
correspondents  inform  the  world  that  he  has  frowned, 
and  every  electric  wire  quivers  if  he  raises  his  little 
finger.  Around  him  is  heard  the  clanking  of  the 
sabre  and  the  roll  of  the  drum.  He  is  seated  in  the 
shadow  of  the  eagles,  begirt  by  ramparts  and  bayo- 
nets. Free  people  tremble  and  conceal  their  liberty 
lest  he  should  rob  them  of  it.  The  great  American 
Republic  even  hesitates  before  him,  and  dares  not 
withdraw  her  ambassador.  Kings  look  at  him  with  a 
smile  from  the  midst  of  their  armies,  though  their 
hearts  be  full  of  dread.  Where  will  he  begin?  Bel- 
gium, Switzerland,  or  Piedmont? 

Europe  awaits  his  invasion.  He  is  able  to  do  as  he 
wishes,  and  he  dreams  of  impossibilities.  Well,  this 
master,  this  triumphant  conqueror,  this  vanquisher, 
this  dictator,  this  emperor,  this  all-powerful  man,  one 

242 


By  VICTOR   HUGO  243 

lonely  man,  robbed  and  ruined,  dares  to  rise  up  and 
attack.  Louis  Napoleon  has  ten  thousand  cannons  and 
five  hundred  thousand  soldiers ;  I  have  but  a  pen  and  a 
bottle  of  ink.  I  am  a  mere  nothing,  a  grain  of  dust,  a 
shadow,  an  exile  without  a  home,  a  vagrant  without 
even  a  passport ;  but  I  have  at  my  side  two  mighty 
auxiliaries, — God,  who  is  invincible,  and  Truth,  which 
is  immortal. 

Certainly  Providence  might  have  chosen  a  more 
illustrious  champion  for  this  duel  to  the  death, — some 
stronger  athlete ;  but  what  matters  the  man  when  it  is 
the  cause  that  fights? 

However  it  may  be,  it  is  good  for  the  world  to  gaze 
upon  this  spectacle.  For  what  is  it  but  intelligence 
strikmg  against  brute  force?  I  have  but  one  stone  for 
my  sling;  but  it  is  a  good  one,  for  its  name  is  Justice! 

I  am  attacking  Louis  Bonaparte  when  he  is  at  the 
height  and  zenith  of  his  power,  at  the  hour  when  all 
bend  before  him.  All  the  better;  this  is  what  suits 
me  best. 

Yes,  I  attack  Louis  Bonaparte;  I  attack  him  openly, 
before  all  the  world.  I  attack  him  before  God  and 
man.  I  attack  him  boldly  and  recklessly  for  love  of 
the  people  and  for  love  of  France.  He  is  going  to  be 
an  emperor.  Let  him  be  one;  but  let  him  remember 
that,  though  you  may  secure  an  empire,  you  cannot 
secure  an  easy  conscience! 

This  is  the  man  by  whom  France  is  governed! 
Governed,  do  I  say? — possessed  in  supreme  and 
sovereign  sway !  And  every  day,  and  every  morning, 
by  his  decrees,  by  his  messages,  by  all  the  incredible 
drivel  which  he  parades  in  the  "Moniteur,"  this  emi- 
grant,  who  knows    not    France,   teaches    France  her 


244  NAPOLEON  the  LITTLE 

lesson !  and  this  ruffian  tells  France  he  has  saved  her ! 
And  from  whom?  From  herself!  Before  him,  Provi- 
dence committed  only  follies;  God  was  waiting  for  him 
to  reduce  everything  to  order;  at  last  he  has  come! 
For  thirty-six  years  there  had  been  in  France  all  sorts 
of  pernicious  things, — the  tribune,  a  vociferous  thing; 
the  press,  an  obstreperous  thing;  thought,  an  insolent 
thing,  and  liberty,  the  most  crying  abuse  of  all.  But 
he  came,  and  for  the  tribune  he  has  substituted  the 
Senate ;  for  the  press,  the  censorship ;  for  thought, 
imbecility;  and  for  liberty,  the  sabre;  and  by  the  sabre 
and  the  Senate,  by  imbecility  and  censorship,  France 
is  saved.  Saved,  bravo!  And  from  whom,  I  repeat? 
From  herself.  For  what  was  this  France  of  ours,  if 
you  please?  A  horde  of  marauders  and  thieves,  of 
anarchists,  assassins,  and  demagogues.  She  had  to  be 
manacled,  had  this  mad  woman,  France;  and  it  is 
Monsieur  Bonaparte  Louis  who  puts  the  handcuffs  on 
her.  Now  she  is  in  a  dungeon,  on  a  diet  of  bread  and 
water,  punished,  humiliated,  garotted,  safely  cared 
for.  Be  not  disturbed;  Monsieur  Bonaparte,  a  police- 
man stationed  at  the  Elysee,  is  answerable  for  her  to 
Europe.  He  makes  it  his  business  to  be  so;  this 
wretched  France  is  in  the  strait- jacket,  and  if  she 
stirs — Ah,  what  is  this  spectacle  before  our  eyes?  Is 
it  a  dream?  Is  it  a  nightmare?  On  one  side  a  nation, 
the  first  of  nations,  and  on  the  other,  a  man,  the  last 
of  men ;  and  this  is  what  this  man  does  to  this  nation. 
What!  he  tramples  her  under  his  feet,  he  laughs  in 
her  face,  he  mocks  and  taunts  her,  he  disowns,  insults, 
and  flouts  her!  What!  he  says,  "I  alone  am  worthy 
of  consideration!"  What!  in  this  land  of  France 
where  none  would  dare  to  slap  the  face  of  his  fellow. 


By  VICTOR    HUGO  245 

this  man  can  slap  the  face  of  the  nation?  Oh,  the 
abominable  shame  of  it  all !  Every  time  that  Monsieur 
Bonaparte  spits,  every  face  must  be  wiped!  And  this 
can  last!  and  you  tell  me  it  will  last!  No!  No!  by 
every  drop  in  every  vein,  no!  It  shall  not  last!  Ah, 
if  this  did  last,  it  would  be  in  very  truth  because  there 
would  no  longer  be  a  God  in  heaven,  nor  a  France  on 
earth ! 


THE      CUMBERLAND     ROAD.       By     THOMAS 
CORWIN. 

MR.  SPEAKER,  I  have  one  word  to  say,  before  I 
sit  down,  to  the  gentleman  from  Kentucky.  He 
spoke  the  other  day  in  opposition  to  this  bill.  He  did 
not  deny  that  the  Cumberland  road  might  be  useful ; 
but,  as  he  could  obtain  no  money  here  to  enable  his 
people  to  build  dams  and  make  slack- water  navigation 
on  Green  River,  he  would  not  help  us  to  make  a  road 
on  the  northern  side  of  the  Ohio.  And  then  the  gen- 
tleman proceeded  in  a  grave  disquisition  upon  our  con- 
stitutional powers  to  make  roads  and  improve  rivers. 
What  says  the  Constitution?  "Congress  shall  have 
power  to  regulate  commerce  with  foreign  nations, 
amonof  the  sev^eral  States,  and  with  the  Indian  tribes." 
What  is  the  gentleman's  commentary?  You  have, 
says  he,  a  clear  and  undoubted  right  to  improve  rivers, 
but  not  so  of  roads.  And  why,  Mr.  Speaker,  why? 
Do  you,  sir,  remember  the  reason  for  this  distinction? 
It  was  this:  "Providence,"  says  the  gentleman,  "has 
marked  out  rivers  as  the  proper  channels  and  avenues 
of  commerce. ' '  What  a  beautiful  and  exalted  piety  is 
here  shedding  its  clear  light  upon  the  dark  mysteries  of 
constitutional  law!  And  then  how  logical  the  con- 
clusion! Thus  runs  the  argument:  Since  it  is  not  the 
will  of  God  that  commerce  should  be  carried  on  on  dry 
land,  but  only  on  the  water,  the  powers  over  com- 
merce, given  in  the  Constitution  by  our  pious  ances- 
tors, must  be  understood  as  limited  by  the  Divine 
commands;  and  therefore,  says  he,  you  have  power  to 
remove  sand-bars  and  islands,  to  make  a  channel  which 
Providence  has  begun  and  left  unfinished;  but  beware, 
he  would  say,  "how  you  cut  down  a  tree,  or  remove  a 

246 


By  THOMAS   CORWIN  247 

rock,  on  the  dry  land,  to  complete  what  Providence 
has  begun  there.  You  have  no  power  by  law  to  do 
this  last;  besides,  it  is  impious,  it  is  not  the  will  of 
God." 

Mr.  Speaker,  I  know  of  no  parallel  to  this  charming 
philosophy,  unless  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  sayings  of 
Mause  Hedrigg,  an  elderly  Scotch  lady,  who  figures 
in  one  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels.  In  one  of  her 
evangelical  moods,  she  rebuked  her  son  Cuddie  for 
using  a  fan,  or  any  work  of  art,  to  clean  his  barley. 
She  said  it  was  an  awesome  denial  o'  Providence  not 
to  wait  his  own  time,  when  he  would  surely  send  wind 
to  winnow  the  chaff  out  of  the  grain.  In  the  same 
spirit  of  enlightened  philosophy  does  the  gentleman 
exhort  us  in  Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois,  to  cease  our 
impious  road-making,  and  wait  the  good  time  of  Provi- 
dence, who  will,  as  he  seems  to  think,  surely  send  a 
river  to  run  from  Cumberland  over  the  Alleghanies, 
across  the  Ohio,  and  so  on,  in  its  heaven-directed 
course,  to  St.  Louis.  Mr.  Speaker,  the  gentleman 
from  Kentucky  is  not  the  author  of  this  theory.  Our 
Atlantic  brethren,  especially  of  the  South,  have  long 
held  the  same  doctrine.  They  have  long  since  discov- 
ered that  our  glorious  Constitution  was  nothing  more  at 
last  than  a  fish!  made  for  the  w^ater,  and  which  can 
only  live  in  the  water.  According  to  their  views,  he 
is  a  goodly  fish,  of  marvellous  proper  uses  and  func- 
tions while  you  keep  him  in  the  water;  but  the  moment 
he  touches  dry  land,  lo!  he  suffocates  and  dies.  The 
only  difference  between  this  school  of  constitutional 
lawyers  and  the  gentleman  from  Kentucky  is  this:  he 
believes  that  your  Constitution  is  a  fish  that  thrives  in 
all  waters,  and  especially  in  Green  River  slack-water ; 


248  The  CUMBERLAND   ROAD 

whereas,  his  brethren  of  the  South  insist  that  he  can 
only  live  in  salt  water.  With  them  the  doctrine  is, 
wherever  the  tide  ceases  to  flow,  he  dies.  He  can  live 
and  thrive  in  a  little  tide  creek,  which  a  thirsty  mos- 
quito would  drink  dry  in  a  hot  day ;  but  place  him  on 
or  under  the  majestic  wave  of  the  Mississippi,  and  in 
an  instant  he  expires.  Mr.  Speaker,  who  can  limit  the 
range  of  science?  What  hand  can  stay  the  march  of 
mind?  Heretofore  we  have  studied  the  science  of  law 
to  help  us  in  our  understanding  of  the  Constitution. 
Some  have  brought  metaphysical  learning  to  this  aid. 
But  now,  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
these  labors  are  all  ended.  Ichthyology,  sir,  is  the 
key  to  open  all  the  doors  that  have  hitherto  barred  our 
approaches  to  truth.  According  to  this  new  school  of 
philosophy,  if  you  just  teach  coming  generations  the 
"nature  of  fish,"  those  great  problems  in  constitutional 
law  that  vexed  and  worried  the  giant  intellects  of 
Hamilton,  Madison  and  Marshall  are  at  once  revealed 
and  made  plain  to  the  dullest  peasant  in  the  land.  Sir, 
if  I  appear  to  trifle  with  this  grave  subject,  the  fault  is 
not  mine ;  it  arises  from  the  singular  nature  and  con- 
trariant  character  of  those  arguments  which  I  am  most 
unwillingly  compelled  to  combat. 


RUSSIA  THE  ANTAGONIST  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES.     By  LOUIS  KOSSUTH. 

LADIES  and  Gentlemen:  When,  four  years  ago, 
the  tidings  of  our  struggle  made  the  scarcely 
before  known  name  of  Hungary  familiar  to  you,  sym- 
pathy for  a  nobly  defended  noble  cause  moved  your 
hearts  to  rejoice  at  our  victories,  to  feel  anxiety  about 
our  dangers. 

You  were  far  from  anticipating  that  the  issue  of  our 
struggle  would  become  an  opportunity  for  your 
country  to  take  that  position  which  Divine  Providence 
has  evidently  assigned  to  you;  I  mean  the  position  of 
a  power,  not  restricted  in  its  influence  to  the  Western 
Hemisphere,  but  reaching  across  the  earth.  You  had 
not  thought  that  it  is  the  struggle  of  Hungary  which 
will  call  on  you  to  fulfil  the  prophecy  of  Canning ;  who 
comprehended,  that  it  is  the  destiny  of  the  New  World 
to  redress  the  balance  of  power  in  the  Old. 

The  universal  importance  of  our  contest  has  been 
but  late  revealed.  It  has  been  revealed  by  the  inter- 
ference of  Russia,  by  our  fall,  and  by  its  more  threaten- 
ing results. 

And  it  is  indeed  your  destiny.  Russian  diplomacy 
could  never  boast  of  a  greater  and  more  fatal  victory 
than  it  had  a  right  to  boast,  should  it  succeed  to  per- 
suade the  United  States  not  to  care  about  her — Russia 
accomplishing  her  aim  to  become  the  ruling  power  in 
Europe ;  the  ruling  power  in  Asia ;  the  ruling  power 
of  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  That  would  be  indeed  a 
great  triumph  to  Russian  diplomacy,  greater  than  her 
triumph  over  Hungary;  a  triumph  dreadful  to  all 
humanity,  but  to  nobody  more  dreadful  than  to  your 
own  future. 

249 


250  RUSSIA   tke  ANTAGONIST 

You  may  perhaps  believe  that  that  triumph  of 
diplomacy  is  impossible  in  America.  But  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  that  it  has  a  dangerous  ally,  in  the  propensity 
to  believe,  that  the  field  of  American  policy  is  limited 
geographically;  that  there  is  a  field  for  American,  and 
there  is  a  field  for  European  policy,  and  that  these 
fields  are  distinct,  and  that  it  is  your  interest  to  keep 
them  distinct. 

Gentlemen,  I  have  often  heard  the  remark,  that  if 
the  United  States  do  not  care  for  the  policy  of  the 
world,  they  will  continue  to  grow  internally,  and  will 
soon  become  the  mightiest  realm  on  earth,  a  Republic 
of  a  hundred  millions  of  energetic  freemen,  strong 
enough  to  defy  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  to  control 
the  destinies  of  mankind.  And  surely  this^  is  your 
glorious  lot;  but  only  under  the  condition  that  no  hos- 
tile combination,  before  you  have  in  peace  and  in  tran- 
quillity grown  so  strong,  arrests  by  craft  and  violence 
your  giant-course;  and  this  again  is  possible,  only 
under  the  condition  that  Europe  become  free,  and  the 
league  of  despots  become  not  sufficiently  powerful  to 
check  the  peaceful  development  of  your  strength.  But 
Russia,  too,  the  embodiment  of  the  principle  of 
despotism,  is  working  hard  for  the  development  of  her 
power.  Whilst  you  grow  internally,  her  able  diplo- 
macy has  spread  its  nets  all  over  the  continent  of 
Europe.  There  is  scarcely  a  Prince  there  but  feels 
honored  to  be  an  underling  of  the  great  Czar;  the 
despots  are  all  leagued  against  the  freedom  of  the 
nations;  and  should  the  principle  of  absolutism  con- 
solidate its  power,  and  lastingly  keep  down  the  nations, 
then  it  must,  even  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
try  to  check  the  further  development  of  your  Republic. 


By  LOUIS   KOSSUTH  251 

The  despots  are  scheming  to  muzzle  the  English 
lioti.  You  see  already  how  they  are  preparing  for  this 
blow — that  Russia  may  become  mistress  of  Constanti- 
nople, by  Constantinople  mistress  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  by  the  Mediterranean  of  three-quarters 
of  the  globe.  Egypt,  Macedonia,  Asia-Minor,  the 
country  and  early  home  of  the  cotton  plant,  are  then 
the  immediate  provinces  of  Russia,  a  realm  with 
twenty  million  serfs,  subject  to  its  policy  and  depend- 
ing on  its  arbitrary  will. 

Here  is  a  circumstance  highly  interesting  to  the 
United  States.  Constantinople  is  the  key  to  Russia. 
To  be  preponderant,  she  knows  it  is  necessary  for  her 
to  be  a  maritime  power.  The  Black  Sea  is  only  a  lake, 
like  Lake  Leman ;  the  Baltic  is  frozen  five  months  in  a 
year.  These  are  all  the  seas  she  possesses.  Constan- 
tinople is  the  key  to  the  palace  of  the  Czars.  Russia  is 
already  omnipotent  on  the  Continent ;  once  master  of 
the  Mediterranean,  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  that  the 
power  which  already  controls  three-quarters  of  the 
world,  will  soon  have  the  fourth  quarter. 

Whilst  the  victory  of  the  nations  of  Europe  would 
open  to  you  the  markets,  till  now  closed  to  your  prod- 
ucts, the  consolidation  of  despotism  destroys  your 
commerce  unavoidably.  If  your  wheat,  your  tobacco, 
your  cotton,  were  excluded  from  Europe  but  for  one 
year,  there  is  no  farm,  no  plantation,  no  banking- 
house,  which  would  not  feel  the  terrible  shock  of  such 
a  convulsion. 

And  hand-in-hand  with  the  commercial  restrictions 
you  will  then  see  an  establishment  of  monarchies  from 
Cape  Horn  to  the  Rio  Grande  del  Norte.  Cuba 
becomes  a  battery  against  the  mouth  of  the  Missis- 


252  RUSSIA  the  ANTAGONIST 

sippi;  the  Sandwich  Islands  a  barrier  to  your  com- 
merce on  the  Pacific;  Russian  diplomacy  will  foster 
your  domestic  dissensions  and  rouse  the  South  against 
the  North,  and  the  North  against  the  South,  the  sea- 
coast  against  the  inland  States,  and  the  inland  States 
against  the  sea-coast,  the  Pacific  interests  against  the 
Atlantic  interests;  and  when  discord  paralyzes  your 
forces,  then  comes  at  last  the  foreign  interference, 
preceded  by  the  declaration,  that  the  European  powers 
having,  with  your  silent  consent,  inscribed  into  the 
code  of  international  law  the  principle  that  every 
foreign  power  has  the  right  to  interfere  in  the  domes- 
tic affairs  of  any  nation  when  these  become  a  danger- 
ous example,  and  your  example  and  your  republican 
principles  being  dangerous  to  the  absolutist  powers, 
and  your  domestic  dissensions  dangerous  to  the 
order  and  tranquillity  of  Europe,  therefore  they  con- 
sider it  their  "duty  to  interfere  in  America."  And 
Europe  being  oppressed,  you  will  have,  single  handed, 
to  encounter  the  combined  forces  of  the  world.  I  say 
no  more  about  this  subject.  America  will  remember 
then  the  poor  exile,  if  it  does  not  in  time  enter  upon 
that  course  of  policy  which  the  intelligence  of  Massa- 
chusetts, together  with  the  5^oung  instinct  of  Ohio,  are 
the  foremost  to  understand  and  to  advance. 

A  man  of  your  own  State,  a  President  of  the  United 
States,  John  Quincy  Adams,  with  enlarged  sagacity, 
accepted  the  Panama  Mission,  to  consider  the  action 
of  the  Holy  Alliance  upon  the  interests  of  the  South 
American  Republics. 

Now,  I  beg  you  to  reflect,  gentlemen,  how  South 
America  is  different  from  Europe,  as  respects  your 
own  country.     Look  at  the  thousand  ties  that  bind  you 


By  LOUIS    KOSSUTH  253 

to  Europe.  In  Washington,  a  Senator  from  Califor- 
nia, a  generous  friend  of  mine,  told  me  he  was  thirty 
days  by  steamer  from  the  seat  of  Government.  Well, 
you  speak  of  distance — just  give  me  a  good  steamer 
and  good  sailors,  and  you  will  in  twenty  days  see  the 
flag  of  freedom  raised  in  Hungary. 

I  remember  that  when  one  of  your  glorious  Stars 
(Florida,  I  think  it  was)  was  about  to  be  introduced, 
the  question  of  discussion  and  objection  became,  that 
the  distance  was  great.  It  was  argued  that  the  limits 
of  the  government  would  be  extended  so  far,  that  its 
duties  could  not  be  properly  attended  to.  The  Presi- 
dent answered,  that  the  distance  was  not  too  great,  if 
the  seat  of  government  could  be  reached  in  thirty 
days.  So  far  your  have  extended  your  territory ;  and 
I  am  almost  inclined  to  ask  my  poor  Hungary  to  be 
accepted  as  a  Star  in  your  glorious  galaxy.  She 
might  become  a  star  in  this  immortal  constellation, 
since  she  is  not  so  far  as  thirty  days  off  from  you. 

What  little  English  I  know,  I  learned  from  your 
Shakespeare,  and  I  learned  from  him  that  "there  are 
more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of 
in  our  philosophy."  Who  knows  what  the  future 
may  bring  forth?  I  trust  in  God  that  all  nations  will 
become  free,  and  that  they  will  be  united  for  the 
internal  interests  of  humanity,  and  in  that  galaxy  of 
freedom  I  know  what  place  the  United  States  will 
have. 

One  word  more.  When  John  Quincy  Adams 
assumed  for  the  United  States  the  place  of  a  power  on 
earth,  he  was  objected  to,  because  it  was  thought  pos- 
sible that  that  step  might  give  offence  to  the  Holy 
Alliance.     His  answer  was  in  these  memorable  words : 


254  RUSSIA  the  ANTAGONIST 

•'The  United  States  must  take  counsel  of  their  rights 
and  duties,  and  not  from  their  fears." 

The  Anglo-Saxon  race  represents  constitutional 
governments.  If  it  be  united  for  these,  we  shall  have 
what  we  want,  Fair  Play;  and,  relying  "upon  our 
God,  the  justness  of  our  cause,  iron  wills,  honest 
hearts  and  good  swords, "  my  people  will  strike  once 
more  for  freedom,  independence,  and  for  Fatherland. 


EDWIN  BOOTH.  From  "Commemorative  Addresses 
by  Parke  Godwin."  Copyright,  1894,  by  Harper  & 
Brothers.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By  PARKE 
GODWIN. 

LIKE  a  light  in  the  skies  he  has  now  passed  below 
the  dews  and  damps  of  the  horizon ;  but  may  we 
not  say  of  him  with  our  earliest  of  poets,  that 

"The  soft  mem'ry  of  his  virtues  yet 
Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun  is  set"? 

May  we  not  say  of  him,  as  of  the  good  Duncan,  that 
"after  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well,"  leaving  behind 
him  no  rankling  animosities,  no  unadjusted  wrongs, 
no  bitter  remembrances,  only  sorrow  and  a  grateful 
sense  of  his  genius  and  goodness?  In  life,  no  doubt, 
he  had  his  enemies — who  has  not? — but  no  one  ever 
learned  that  fact  from  his  own  lips.  There  were 
those,  perhaps,  even  of  his  own  profession,  who  exag- 
gerated his  hereditary  traits  into  personal  faults,  but  it 
produced  no  bitter  resentment  in  his  heart.  For 
thirty  years  that  I  knew  him  with  more  or  less  inti- 
macy I  never  heard  him  speak  an  unkind  word  of  any 
human  being.  Yet  he  was  as  unassuming  as  he  was 
generous,  and  I  may  add  that  during  that  long  interval 
I  never  heard  him  speak  unduly  of  himself,  or  of  him- 
self at  all  save  in  connection  with  some  project  for  the 
public  good. 

Affliction  fell  upon  him, — the  early  death  of  his 
father — whom  he  loved  and  honored — the  withering  of 
that  fair  flower  now  "enskied  and  sainted,"  around 
whose  being  the  tenderest  fibres  of  his  heart  were 
strung — that  great  public  calamity,  which  for  a 
moment  blotted  his  heaven  of  future  hope  and  happi- 

»55 


2s6  EDWIN   BOOTH 

ness;  but  these  misfortunes,  while  they  may  have 
deepened  the  lines  of  thought  on  his  forehead,  never 
galled  his  heart  with  a  drop  of  despair  or  pessimism. 
Recovering  with  elastic  spirit  from  every  blow,  he  kept 
the  even  tenor  of  his  way  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty, 
as  he  conceived  it.  The  other  day,  in  taking  up  his 
copy  of  "Macready's  Reminiscences,"  I  found  near  the 
close,  where  the  veteran  actor  expresses  dissatisfaction 
with  his  life,  that  Mr.  Booth  had  penciled  on  the  mar- 
gin: "What  would  this  man  have?  Blessed  with  edu- 
cation, with  a  loving  family,  with  fame  and  fortune 
and  the  friendship  of  the  great,  he  ought  to  have  been 
supremely  happy. " 

Mr.  Booth  was  not  supremely  happy — few  are ;  but 
he  enjoyed  life.  He  enjoyed  it  because  he  had  discov- 
ered the  true  secret  of  tranquillity  and  content — the  use 
of  his  faculties  and  his  fortune,  not  as  a  means  of  self- 
indulgence  or  ostentation,  but  for  the  furtherance  of 
general  ends.  Scarcely  one  of  his  more  intimate 
friends  but  could  tell  you  of  some  dark  home  bright- 
ened, of  some  decayed  gentleman  or  gentlewoman 
raised  to  comfort  and  cheerfulness  by  his  unseen  but 
timely  intervention.  He  had  learned  the  deep  wisdom 
of  that  epigram  of  Martial,  which  perhaps  he  had  never 
read,  which  says  that  "what  we  possess  and  try  to 
keep  flies  away,  but  what  we  give  away  remains  a  joy- 
ful possession  forever. "  It  was  for  this  his  friends  not 
only  admired  him,  but  loved  him ;  and  it  was  for  this 
the  greater  public  mingled  with  its  admiration  of  the 
artist  its  attachment  to  the  man.  For,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  this  man  who  had  passed  his  life  in  the 
expression  of  simulated  sentiments  was  in  his  own  life 
the  sincerest  and  truest  of  men.     This  man,  who,  like 


By  PARKE    GODWIN  257 

a  nomad,  had  spent  his  days  in  wandering  over  the 
earth,  prized  above  all  thini^s  else  the  retirement  and 
seclusion  of  the  home;  this  conspicuous  leader  of  a 
profession  more  than  others  exposed  to  temptation, 
preserved  himself  as  pure  as  the  wind-sifted  snow  of 
the  mountains;  and  he,  the  popular  idol,  who  had  only 
to  appear  upon  the  boards  to  awaken  round  upon  round 
of  rapturous  applause,  dreaded  notoriety,  shunned  the 
crowd,  and  loved  to  be  alone  with  his  own  thoughts. 
How  gentle  he  was  there  I  cannot  tell  you — as  gentle 
as  the  breeze  that  will  not  detach  the  delicate  blossom 
from  the  stem ;  nor  how  strong  he  was  in  his  adherence 
to  duty — as  strong  as  the  oak  that  no  blasts  from  the 
hills  can  pull  up  by  its  roots. 

Therefore  it.was  that  a  strong  personal  feeling  per- 
vaded his  popularity.  Recall  those  final  days,  when  he 
was  laid  upon  the  couch  of  pain,  and  remember  how 
eagerly  we  followed  the  bulletins,  rejoicing  when  they 
were  favorable  and  sorrowing  when  they  were  not  so. 
Tried  skill  and  devoted  affection  were  gathered  about 
that  couch — the  affections  of  life-long  friends,  and  of 
one,  the  image  of  her  who  had  long  since  gone  to  pre- 
pare his  way;  but  neither  skill  nor  affection  could 
delay  the  death-hour,  and  when,  on  that  sweet,  soft 
day  of  June,  as  light  and  warmth  were  broadening 
over  the  earth,  and  the  trees  had  put  on  a  fuller  and 
richer  green,  it  was  announced  that  his  eyes  were 
finally  closed  on  all  this  brightness  and  beauty — how 
instinctively  we  exclaimed  with  Horatio,  bending  over 
the  prostrate  form  of  Hamlet,  "Now  cracks  a  noble 
heart!"  and  as  the  big  tears  flushed  our  eyes,  how  we 
added  with' him:  "Good-night,  sweet  Prince!  And 
flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest. "     Indeed,  may 


258  EDWIN    BOOTH 

we  not  repeat  it  here,  "Good  night,  sweet  Prince," 
and  as  we  utter  it  may  we  not  hear  with  our  finer 
ears  a  responsive  echo,  floating  with  solemn  softness, 
downward  from  the  heights,  "Good-night,  dear  friends, 
God  bless  you  all ;  good-night ! ' ' 


INTERNATIONAL  ARBITRATION.     By  JAMES 
RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

I  HAVE  been  exceedingly  touched  latterly  by  the 
kindness  which  I  have  received  here  in  England 
from  all  classes,  but  never  have  I  been  more  pro- 
foundly touched  than  by  the  deputation  that  has  now 
waited  upon  me  to  express  the  kind  wishes  of  the  Eng- 
lish Workingmen.  I  have  twice  had  the  pleasure  of 
addressing  workingmen  since  I  have  been  in  England, 
and  I  have  been  gratified  to  find  that,  among  all  the 
audiences  to  whom  I  have  spoken,  there  were  none 
more  intelligent.  They  were  exceedingly  quick  to 
catch  all  points  and  exceedingly  agreeable  to  talk  to. 

You  must  not  think  that  I  have  forgotten  the  part 
taken  by  the  workingmen  of  England  during  our  civil 
war — I  won't  say  on  behalf  of  the  North,  because  now 
we  are  a  united  people — on  the  side  of  good  order  and 
freedom ;  and  on  the  only  occasion  when  I  had  an 
opportunity  of  saying  so — that  was  when  speaking  to 
the  provincial  press  in  London — I  alluded  to  the  sub- 
ject. I  agree  with  you  entirely  on  the  importance  of  a 
good  understanding  and  much  more  between  England 
and  the  United  States,  and  between  the  two  chief 
branches  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  I  think  you  exag- 
gerate a  good  deal  of  my  ovv^n  merit  in  relation  to  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  but  I  have  always  had  a  feeling 
about  me  that  a  war  between  the  two  countries  would 
be  a  civil  war,  and  I  believe  a  cordial  understanding 
between  them  to  be  absolutely  essential,  not  only  to 
the  progress  of  reasonable  liberty,  but  its  preservation 
and  its  extension  to  other  races. 

It  is  a  particular  pleasure  to  me  on  another  account 
to  meet   English  worktiien.      I  notice   that,   however 

259 


26o         INTERNATIONAL   ARBITRATION 

ardent  they  maj'-  be  in  their  aspirations,  and  however 
theoretical  on  some  points,  they  are  always  reasonable. 
The  individual  man  may  set  the  impossible  before 
him  as  something  to  be  obtained,  but  I  think  those 
communities  of  men  have  prospered  the  best  who  have 
aimed  at  what  is  possible.  We  see  daily  illustrations 
of  that,  and  anybody  who  has  studied  the  history  of 
France  would  be  convinced  that,  though  England  has  a 
form  of  government  not  so  free  as  that  country,  yet 
you  have  made  a  greater  advance  towards  peace  than 
France  has  done,  I  do  not  wish  you  tc  suppose  that  I 
am  out  of  sympathy  with  what  I  call  the  French  Revo- 
lution— although  I  consider  it  an  enormous  misfortune, 
which  might  have  been  prevented,  and  France  saved 
from  many  evil  consequences  that  followed — but  the 
manner  in  which  it  took  place  we  ought  all  to 
regard. 

Since  I  have  been  in  England  I  have  done  some- 
thing, I  trust,  to  promote  a  cordial  feeling  between 
this  country  and  the  United  States.  That  has  been 
my  earnest  desire  always,  and  I  hope  I  have  to  some 
extent  succeeded.  You  will  allow  me  to  thank  you 
warmly  for  your  address,  which  I  shall  always  feel  to 
be  among  my  most  precious  possessions,  and  I  shall 
carry  to  the  workmen  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic 
the  message  expressive  of  your  sympathy  and  hope, 
I  hope  the  occasion  will  not  ever  arise  even  for  arbitra- 
tion. I  think  if  we  can  talk  together  face  to  face  we 
shall  be  able  to  settle  all  differences.  I  am  certain 
that  the  relations  between  the  two  countries  are  now  of 
a  most  amicable  and  friendly  kind,  and  I  am  sure  that 
my  successor  is  as  strongly  impressed  as  I  could  be 
with  the  necessity  of  strengthening  those  friendly  rela- 


By  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL  261 

tions.     I  trust  the  necessity  for  arbitration  may  never 
arise  between  us;  I  do  not  think  it  will. 

You  will  again  allow  me  to  give  you  my  most 
hearty  and  profound  thanks  for  the  kindness  you  have 
done  me,  and  to  wish  you  all  manner  of  prosperity.  I 
trust  also  that  that  reign  of  peace  to  which  you  allude 
may  come  soon  and  last  long.  I  appreciate  extremely 
what  Mr.  Cremer  said  as  to  your  sympathy  with  the 
Northern  States  in  the  Civil  War,  with  whom  no  one 
could  help  sympathizing  if  they  went  to  the  root  of  the 
matter.  I  believe  in  peace  as  strongly  as  any  man  can 
do,  but  I  believe  also  that  there  are  occasions  when 
war  is  less  disastrous  than  peace ;  that  there  are  times 
when  one  must  resort  to  what  goes  before  all  law,  and 
what,  indeed,  forms  the  foundation  of  it — the  law  of 
the  strongest;  and  that,  as  a  general  rule,  the  strong- 
est deserve  to  get  the  best  of  the  struggle.  They  say 
satirically  that  God  is  on  the  side  of  the  strong 
battalions,  but  I  think  they  are  sometimes  in  the  right, 
and  my  experience  goes  to  prove  that. 


THE  TRUTH  OF  THE  GOSPEL.  From  "Cam- 
bridge Sermons."  Copyright,  1883.  Reprinted  with 
permission.     By  ALEXANDER  McKENZIE. 

WE  stand  among  mysteries,  are  full  of  inquiries. 
A  man's  relation  to  God,  a  man's  duty,  the 
way  of  restoration  to  God  which  shall  give  him  peace 
and  assurance;  a  man's  destiny  and  the  way  to  make 
that  destiny  blessed — upon  these  themes  the  world  has 
no  clear  voice,  save  where  the  gospel  is  preached.  I 
wander  from  man  to  man  with  the  serious  thoughts 
which  come  to  me,  as  I  know  that  in  a  few  years,  at  the 
most,  I  shall  go  hence.  But  no  man  tells  me  anything 
much  better  than  I  have  thought  out  by  myself.  I 
stand  among  the  open  graves  of  your  households,  to 
hear  you  ask,  "What  is  there  beyond?"  And  all  the 
schools  are  silent;  the  oracles  are  dumb.  We  utter 
our  hope  through  our  tears;  the  untaught  centuries 
have  added  nothing  to  the  human  hopes.  Knowledge 
was  never  so  great  as  to-day;  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
was  never  so  vigorous ;  but  all  the  study  has  not  added 
a  syllable  which  answers  the  questions  which  we  must 
have  answered;  for  whose  answer  we  would  be  willing 
to  deny  ourselves  much  which  men  call  knowledge. 

This  silence  is  significant  when  knowledge  is  so  vast 
and  is  growing  on  every  hand.  Men  are  bringing  the 
heavens  down  to  the  earth,  and,  walking  along  their 
streets,  they  are  wakening  the  strong  forces  of  forgot- 
ten generations,  and  their  life  flies  through  the  air  and 
swims  through  the  seas  as  if  it  had  not  been  dead  for 
ages.  Men  are  studying  their  own  thoughts,  and 
philosophy  was  never  so  venturesome,  perhaps  never 
so  wise,  as  it  is  to-day.  I  can  know  almost  anything 
that  I  want  to  know.     Nothing  is  so  distant  in  space 

262 


By  ALEXANDER    McKENZIE  263 

or  so  remote  in  time  that  I  may  not  hope  to  know  of  it 
all  which  I  need  to  know.  With  this  knowledge  rising 
about  my  feet,  tmtil  I  am  half  drowned  with  the  mere 
names  of  the  topics  which  it  presents  to  me,  I  ask  if 
there  is  nothing  to  be  known  of  the  things  which  are 
most  important.  I  go  through  the  libraries  from  shelf 
to  shelf,  from  book  to  book,  and  they  tell  me  almost 
everything  but  that  which  I  must  know.  I  press  my 
inquiries  and  beg  for  a  reply,  and  the  wise  men  say, 
' '  We  will  teach  you  everything  else ;  we  will  tell  you 
what  you  sprung  from;  we  will  analyze  your  char- 
acter; we  will  break  the  light  into  fragments  and  lay 
the  stars  as  a  glittering  dust  at  your  feet ;  but  your 
duty  you  cannot  know ;  your  relation  to  God  you  can- 
not know ;  what  comes  after  death  you  cannot  know ; 
the  way  of  bringing  peace  to  your  conscience  and 
righteousness  to  your  life  you  cannot  know."  I  say 
that  we  can  know.  In  the  name  of  growing,  star-eyed 
science,  we  can  know.  In  the  name  of  fourteen  hun- 
dred students  in  our  university,  we  can  know.  In  the 
name  of  our  vast  libraries,  our  bold  search  for  truth, 
our  accumulated,  teeming,  and  overwhelming  knowl- 
edge of  everything  else,  we  can  know.  I  know  that  I 
can  know.  God,  duty,  life,  destiny — I  am  sure  that  I 
can  know  them;  and  I  find  the  knowledge  in  this  gos- 
pel of  God,  which  answers  the  questions  with  a  voice 
that  does  not  tremble;  which  gratifies  this  longing  of 
the  heart  to  whom  these  are  the  real,  the  practical 
things  of  life;  and  because  the  gospel  comes  to  me 
doing  what  must  be  done,  telling  what  I  must  know, 
supplementing  all  the  growing  knowledge  of  the  world, 
it  commends  itself  to  my  conscience  in  the  sight  of 
God.      My  conscience  says  that  I  can  know  my  duty 


264  The  TRUTH  of  the  GOSPEL 

and  my  destiny.  The  world  says,  "We  cannot  tell  you 
your  duty  nor  your  destiny";  and  my  conscience 
smiles  upon  the  revelation  and  glories  in  it. 

In  its  rational  method  the  gospel  commends  itself  to 
the  conscience.  It  addresses  itself  at  once  to  the  spirit. 
It  recognizes  the  spiritual  nature  of  man.  That  grand 
sentence,  almost  the  grandest  sentence  in  the  Bible, 
which  our  Saviour  uttered  at  the  well  of  Samaria, 
when  he  said,  "God  is  a  spirit,"  finds  its  counterpart 
in  another  truth  implied  all  through  the  Scriptures.  It 
might  be  rendered  in  this  way:  Man  is  a  spirit,  and 
they  that  help  him  must  help  him  in  spirit  and  in 
truth.  Some  persons,  claiming  our  respect,  say,  man 
is  a  spirit,  and  they  that  help  him  must  build  him  a 
better  house ;  they  must  give  him  a  better  social  estate ; 
they  must  provide  a  better  government;  they  must 
invent  a  new  kind  of  sepulchre.  But  the  gospel  is 
better;  it  goes  directly  to  the  spirit  of  man.  That 
word  "conscience"  itself  is  a  witness.  "What  other 
system  of  religion  clearly  pronounces  the  word?  What 
system  of  learning  speaks  the  word  "conscience" 
except  as  it  takes  it  from  the  gospel?  To  the  reason, 
to  the  affections,  to  the  will — that  is,  to  the  man  him- 
self. Scripture  appeals.  It  flashes  no  sword;  it 
stretches  out  no  sceptre ;  it  paints  no  picture ;  it  sings 
no  song;  it  raises  no  glittering  pageant  which  may 
delight"  and  bewilder.  It  comes  with  the  simple  truth 
to  the  reason  and  heart  of  man.  You  may  hear  this 
truth  of  God  in  the  stateliest  cathedral  with  all  its 
accompaniments  of  architecture  and  music.  You  may 
hear  it  in  the  camp  of  the  soldier.  The  sailor  may 
read  it  in  his  forecastle.  The  wrecked  mariner  may 
recall   it  upon  the  ocean    rock.      The    prisoner  may 


By  ALEXANDER    McKENZIE.  265 

remember  it  in  the  dungeon.  The  dying  man  may 
catch  its  words  from  the  scroll  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 
You  may  not  have  the  book;  you  may  recall  but  a 
single  chapter,  a  single  sentence  of  it;  and  that  sen- 
tence, in  its  witness  to  God,  and  duty,  and  truth,  and 
redemption,  shall  be  enough  to  save  a  man  into  a 
righteous  life  and  to  give  him  a  glorious  hope. 


AFTER-DINNER  SPEECH  BEFORE  THE  HAR- 
VARD CLUB  OF  NEW  YORK.  By  HENRY  E. 
ROWLAND. 

I  FEEL  the  usual  diffidence  that  should  characterize 
the  representative  of  a  junior  branch  of  the  great 
family  of  which  Harvard  is  the  head,  in  appearing  at 
your  annual  reunion;  but,  as  the  university  from 
which  I  hail  springs  from  your  loins  and  you  are 
responsible  for  its  existence  it  is  natural  that  I  should 
feel  the  glow  of  family  pride  as  you  rehearse  your 
achievements,  and  say  as  the  little  child  did  to  her 
grandmother  who  had  given  a  children's  party: 
"Now,  grandma,  you  must  be  very  nice  to  us  to-day, 
for  if  it  wasn't  for  us  you  wouldn't  be  a  grandma  at 
all." 

There  should  be  a  proper  amount  of  modesty  in  one 
called  upon  to  address  such  an  intelligent  audience  of 
educated  men  as  I  see  before  me,  and  I  am  conscious 
of  it  in  the  same  sense  as  the  patient  who  said  to  his 
physician:  "I  suffer  a  great  deal  from  nervous  dys- 
pepsia, and  I  attribute  it  to  the  fact  that  I  attend  so 
many  public  dinners."  "Ah,  I  see,"  said  the  doctor, 
"you  are  often  called  upon  to  speak,  and  the  nervous 
apprehension  upsets  your  digestion."  "Not  at  all ;  my 
apprehension  is  entirely  on  account  of  the  other 
speakers;  I  never  say  a  thing;"  and  it  is  with  some 
hesitation  that  I  respond  to  your  call,  like  the  absent- 
minded  deacon  of  convivial  tendencies  who  was  asked 
by  his  pastor  at  a  prayer-meeting  to  lead  in  prayer, 
and  he  replied,  remembering  his  experiences  of  the 
night  before:  "It  isn't  my  lead;  I  dealt." 

Following  out  that  line  of  thought,  there  is  a  great 
deal  that  is  attractive  in  a  gathering  of  Harvard  men. 

266 


By  HENRY    E.    ROWLAND  267 

They  have  such  a  winsome  and  a  winning  way  with 
them. 

Richest  in  endowments,  foremost  in  progress,  hon- 
ored by  the  renown  of  a  long  line  of  distinguished 
sons,  the  university  that  claims  you  is  worthy  of  the 
homage  and  respect  which  it  receives  from  the  edu- 
cated men  of  America,  wherever  trained,  and  which  it 
is  my  privilege  to  pay  to  her  to-night,  from  the  eldest 
daughter  of  her  house,  which  seems  to  be  in  a  condi- 
tion of  orphanage,  for  the  head  of  that  great  family 
has  taken  himself  away,  and  we  are  wandering  about 
seeking  a  father,  like  the  little  boy  who  met  a  police- 
man in  a  crowd  and  said:  "Please,  sir;  have  you  seen 
a  man  walking  around  without  a  little  boy,  'cause  I'se 
that  little  boy!" 

The  work  accomplished  by  a  university  is  the  result 
of  the  combined  labors  of  a  large  staff  of  educators, 
and,  however  important  it  may  be  that  the  direction 
should  be  under  the  guidance  of  a  competent  head,  the 
result  is  due  to  the  work  of  all  and  not  to  one  alone, 
although  the  outside  world  is  very  apt  to  attribute  the 
credit  to  the  head  of  the  family — like  the  little  girl 
from  town  who  was  staying  with  some  country  cousins, 
and  at  breakfast  one  morning  saw  on  the  table  a  dish 
of  honey,  and  regarding  this  as  an  opportunity  to  show 
her  knowledge  of  country  life,  and  with  a  desire  to  be 
polite  and  agreeable  to  her  host,  said  smilingly  as  she 
looked  at  it:  "Ah,  I  see  you  keep  a  bee!" 

The  study  of  the  development  of  the  human  race  by 
educational  processes  which  change  by  necessity 
under  changing  conditions  and  environment,  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  that  we  can  engage  in.  The 
greatest  men  of  this  country,  or  any  other,  have  not 


268  AFTER-DINNER   SPEECH 

always  been  made  by  the  university,  however  it  may 
be  with  the  average.  You  cannot  always  tell  by  a 
man's  degree  what  manner  of  a  man  he  is  likely  to  be. 

But  the  value  of  a  technical  or  academic  training  is 
apparent  as  time  goes  on,  population  increases,  occupa- 
tions multiply  and  compete,  and  the  strife  of  life 
becomes  more  fierce  and  strenuous. 

The  leisure  in  which  our  fathers  worked  out  their 
great  problems  of  government,  statesmanship  and 
religion  has  been  supplanted  by  an  electric  current 
which  affects  every  phase  of  life,  from  the  baby  incu- 
bator to  the  electric  chair,  infusing  an  element  of 
hurry  into  life  and  into  its  mental  processes,  with  its 
trolleys,  telephones,  telegraphs,  stenographers  and 
typewriters,  so  that  men  live  at  such  a  rapid  rate  that 
before  they  get  started  they  leave  their  brilliant  futures 
behind  them. 

"It  seems  harder  for  men  to  be  really  great  nowa- 
days than  it  was  years  ago,"  said  a  student  of  history 
to  a  Western  Senator.  "That  is  true,"  he  replied; 
"but  I  am  inclined  to  think  we  get  better  paid  for  it 
now.  * ' 

The  Indian  meal  menu  of  our  ancestors,  or  even 
Emerson's  pie  was  a  better  basis  for  low  living  and 
high  thinking  than  the  elaborate  one  you  have  dis- 
cussed this  evening  with  unlimited  confidence  in  the 
chef  and  in  your  own  digestion.  The  diet  of  fish, 
which  is  a  great  nutriment  for  the  development  of  the 
brain,  has  done  a  great  deal  for  Massachusetts  in  the 
production  of  great  men  from  1620  to  the  present  day, 
and  receives  the  tribute  of  cultured  Boston  in  the 
gilded  codfish  set  up  in  the  legislative  halls  of  the  Cap- 
itol of  Massachusetts  on  Beacon  Hill,  and  justifies  the 


By  HENRY   E,    ROWLAND  269 

answer  of  Artemas  Ward  to  the  youth  who  asked  him 
the  proper  amount  to  eat  for  intellectual  strength,  and 
he  replied:  "I  think  in  your  case  I  would  try  a  small- 
sized  whale." 

Many  in  these  days  seem  to  prefer  notoriety  to  fame, 
because  it  runs  along  the  line  of  least  resistance.  A 
man  has  to  climb  for  fame,  but  he  can  get  notoriety  by 
an  easy  tumble.  And  others  forget  the  one  essential 
necessary  to  success,  of  personal  effort,  and,  assuming 
there  is  a  royal  road  to  learning,  are  content  with  the 
distinction  of  a  degree  from  a  university,  without  car- 
ing for  what  it  implies,  and  answer  as  the  son  did  to 
his  father  who  asked  him:  "Why  don't  you  work,  my 
son?  If  you  only  knew  how  much  happiness  work 
brings,  you  would  begin  at  once."  "Father,  I  am  try- 
ing to  lead  a  life  of  self-denial  in  which  happiness  cuts 
no  figure;  do  not  tempt  me." 

But  notwithstanding  all  these  tendencies,  the  level 
of  mankind  is  raised  at  these  fountains  of  learning, 
the  tone  is  higher  and  the  standards  are  continually 
advanced.  The  discipline  and  the  training  reaches  and 
acts  upon  a  willing  and  eager  army  of  young  recruits 
and  works  its  salutary  effect,  like  that  upon  a  man  who 
listened  with  rapt  attention  to  a  discourse  from  the 
pulpit  and  was  congratulated  upon  his  devotion,  and 
asked  if  he  was  not  impressed.  "Yes,"  he  replied, 
"for  it  is  a  mighty  poor  sermon  that  doesn't  hit  me 
somewhere." 

However  discouraging  the  action  of  our  governing 
bodies  through  the  obstruction  and  perverse  action  of 
an  ignorant  or  corrupt  majority  or  minority  in  them 
may  be  in  the  administration  of  great  public  affairs, 
the  time  at  last  comes  when  the  nation  arouses  from  its 


270  AFTER-DINNER   SPEECH 

lethargy,  shakes  off  its  torpor,  shows  the  strain  of  its 
blood  and  follows  its  trained  and  intelligent  leaders, 
like  the  man  who,  in  a  time  of  sore  distress,  after  the 
ancient  fashion,  put  ashes  on  his  head,  rent  his  gar- 
ments, tore  off  his  coat,  his  waistcoat,  his  shirt  and  his 
undershirt,  and  at  last  came  to  himself.  At  such 
times,  by  the  universal  voice  of  public  opinion  and 
amid  hearty  applause  of  the  whole  people,  we  welcome 
to  public  office  and  the  highest  responsible  stations 
such  men  as  Harvard  has  again  given  to  the  country, 
represented  by  two  of  her  most  distinguished  sons, 
one  of  whom  graces  this  board  to-night  and  the  other 
occupies  the  Governor's  chair  at  Albany.  Their  pro- 
motion is  our  reward.  It  matters  not  to  what  family 
we  belong — Harvard,  Yale,  Columbia,  or  Princeton — 
we  are  all  of  us  one  in  our  welcome  to  them,  for  they 
represent  the  university  spirit  and  what  it  teaches — 
honor,  high-mindedness,  intelligence,  truthfulness, 
unselfishness,  courage  and  patriotism. 


SECRET  EXECUTIONS.     By  VICTOR  HUGO. 

AT  Paris,  we  have  come  back  to  the  time  of  secret 
executions;  since  July  they  no  longer  dare  to 
decapitate  in  the  town,  for  they  are  afraid.  Here  is 
what  they  do.  The}^  took  lately  from  the  Bicetre 
prison  a  man,  under  sentence  of  death,  named  Desan- 
drieux,  I  think ;  they  put  him  into  a  sort  of  panier  on 
two  wheels,  closed  on  every  side,  bolted  and  padlocked ; 
then  with  a  gendarme  in  front  and  another  at  the 
back,  without  noise  or  crowd,  they  proceeded  to  the 
deserted  barrier  of  St.  James.  It  was  eight  in  the 
morning  when  they  arrived,  with  but  little  light. 
There  was  a  newly  erected  Guillotine,  and  for  spec- 
tators, some  dozens  of  little  boys,  grouped  on  the  heaps 
of  stones  around  the  unexpected  machine.  Quickly 
they  withdrew  the  man  from  the  basket;  and  without 
giving  him  time  to  breathe,  they  furtively,  secretly, 
shamefully,  deprived  him  of  life!  And  that  is  called  a 
public  and  solemn  act  of  high  justice!  Infamous 
derision!  How,  then,  do  the  lawgivers  understand 
the  word  civilization?  To  what  point  have  we 
attained?  Justice  reduced  to  stratagems  and  frauds! 
The  law  reduced  to  expedient!  Monstrous!  A  man 
condemned  to  death,  it  would  seem,  was  greatly  to  be 
feared,  since  they  put  an  end  to  him  in  this  traitorous 
fashion ! 

Let  us  be  just,  however;  the  execution  was  not  quite 
secret.  In  the  morning,  people  hawked  and  sold,  as 
usual,  the  sentence  of  death  through  the  streets.  It 
appears  there  are  people  who  live  by  such  sales.  The 
crime  of  a  hapless  fellow-creature,  his  punishment, 
his  torture,  his  agony,  forms  their  stock  in  trade — a 
paper  that  they  sell  for  a  penny.     Can  one  conceive 

271 


278  SECRET   EXECUTIONS 

an5''thiiigf  more  hideous  than  this  coin,  verdigrised  in 
blood? 

Here  are  enough  of  facts;  here  are  too  many.  Is 
not  all  this  horrible?  What  can  be  alleged  in  favour  of 
punishment  by  death? 

I  put  this  question  seriously.  I  ask  it  that  it  may  be 
answered ;  I  ask  it  of  Legislators,  and  not  of  literary 
gossips.  I  know  there  are  people  who  take  "the  excel- 
lence of  punishment  by  death"  for  the  text  of  para- 
doxes, like  any  other  theme ;  there  are  others  who  only 
advocate  capital  punishment  because  they  hate  so-and- 
so  who  attack  it.  It  is  for  them  almost  a  literary 
question,  a  question  of  persons,  and  proper  names; 
these  are  the  envious,  who  do  not  find  more  fault  with 
good  law5'-ers  than  with  good  artists.  The  Joseph 
Grippas  are  no  more  wanting  to  the  Filangieri  than 
the  Torregiani  to  the  Michael  Angelos,  and  the 
Scuderies  to  the  Corneilles. 

It  is  not  to  these  that  I  address  myself,  but  to  men 
of  law,  properly  so  called, — to  logicians,  to  reasoners; 
to  those  who  love  the  penalty  of  death  for  its  beauty, 
its  goodness,  its  grace ! 

Let  them  give  their  reasons. 

Those  who  judge  and  condemn  say  that  "punish- 
ment by  death  is  necessary, — first,  because  it  is  requi- 
site to  remove  from  the  social  community  a  member 
which  has  already  injured  it,  and  might  injure  it 
again. ' ' 

If  this  be  all,  perpetual  imprisonment  would  suffice. 
What  is  the  use  of  inflicting  death?  You  argue  that  a 
prisoner  may  escape  from  gaol, — keep  watch  more 
strictly!  If  you  do  not  believe  in  the  solidity  of  iron 
bars,  how  do  you  venture  to  have  menageries?     Let 


By  VICTOR   HUGO  273 

there  be  no  executioner  where  the  jailer  can  be  suffi- 
cient. 

They  continue,  "But  society  must  avenge  itself, 
society  must  punish." 

Neither  one  nor  the  other;  veng-eance  is  an  indi- 
vidual  act,  and  punishment  belongs  to  God,  Society 
is  between  the  two;  punishment  is  above  its  power, 
retaliation  beneath  it.  Society  should  not  punish,  to 
avenge  itself;    it  should  correct,  to  ameliorate  others! 

Their  third  and  last  reason  remains,  the  theory  of 
example.  "We  must  make  examples.  By  the  sight 
of  the  fate  inflicted  on  criminals,  we  must  shock  those 
who  might  otherwise  be  tempted  to  imitate  them!" 

Well,  in  the  first  place,  I  deny  the  power  of  the 
example.  I  deny  that  the  sight  of  executions  produces 
the  desired  effect.  Far  from  edifying  the  common 
people,  it  demoralizes  and  ruins  their  feeling,  injuring 
every  virtue;  proofs  of  this  abound  and  would  encum- 
ber my  argument  if  I  chose  to  cite  them.  I  will  allude 
to  only  one  fact,  amongst  a  thousand,  because  it  is  of  • 
recent  occurrence.  It  happened  only  ten  days  back 
from  the  present  moment;  namely,  on  the  5th  of 
March,  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival,  At  St.  Pol, 
immediately  after  the  execution  of  an  incendiary 
named  Louis  Camus,  a  group  of  masqueraders  came 
and  danced  round  the  still  reeking  scaffold ! 

Make,  then,  your  fine  examples!  Shrove  Tuesday 
will  turn  them  into  jest! 

If,  notwithstanding  all  experience,  you  still  hold  to 
the  theory  of  example,  then  give  us  back  the  Sixteenth 
Century;  be  in  reality  formidable.  Restore  to  us  a 
variety  of  suffering;  restore  us  the  sworn  torturers; 
restore  us  the  gibbet,  the  wheel,  the  block,  the  rack. 


274  SECRET    EXECUTIONS 

the  thumb-screw,  the  live-burial  vault,  the  burning 
cauldron ;  restore  us  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  as  the  most 
open  shop  among  the  rest,  the  hideous  stall  of  the 
Executioner,  constantly  full  of  human  flesh;  give  us 
back  Montfaugon,  its  caves  of  bones,  its  beams,  its 
crooks,  its  chains,  its  rows  of  skeletons ;  give  us  back, 
in  its  permanence  and  power,  that  gigantic  outhouse  of 
the  Paris  Executioner!  This  indeed  would  be  whole- 
sale example;  this  would  be  "punishment  by  death," 
well  understood ;  this  would  be  a  system  of  execution 
in  some  proportion, — which,  while  it  is  horrible,  is  also 
terrible ! 


THE  DUTIES  OF  CHRISTIANITY.      By    LOUIS 
KOSSUTH. 

OH!  my  people — thou  heart  of  my  heart,  thou  life 
of  my  life — to  thee  are  bent  the  thoughts  of  my 
mind,  and  they  will  remain  bent  to  thee,  though  all 
the  world  may  frown. 

Thou  art  oppressed,  O  my  fatherland!  because  the 
principles  of  Christianity  have  not  been  executed  in 
practice ;  becaiise  the  duties  of  Christianity  have  not 
been  fulfilled;  because  the  precepts  of  Christianity 
have  not  been  obeyed;  because  the  law  of  Christianity 
did  not  control  the  policy  of  nations;  because  there 
are  many  impious  governments  to  offend  the  law  of 
Christ,  but  there  was  none  to  do  the  duties  commanded 
by  Christ. 

Thou  art  fallen,  O  my  country,  because  Christianity 
has  yet  to  come;  but  it  is  not  yet  come — nowhere! 
Nowhere  on  earth !  And  with  the  sharp  eye  of  misfor- 
tune piercing  the  dark  veil  of  the  future,  and  with  the 
tongue  of  Cassandria  relating  what  I  see,  I  cry  it  out 
to  high  Heaven,  and  shout  it  out  to  the  Earth — 
"Nations,  proud  of  your  momentary  power;  proud  of 
your  freedom ;  proud  of  your  prosperity — your  power 
is  vain,  your  freedom  is  vain,  your  industry,  your 
wealth,  your  prosperity  are  vain;  all  these  will  not 
save  you  from  sharing  the  mournful  fate  of  those  old 
nations,  not  less  powerful  than  you,  not  less  free,  not  less 
prosperous  than  you — and  still  fallen,  as  you  yourself 
will  fall — all  vanished  as  you  will  vanish,  like  a  bubble 
thrown  up  from  the  deep!  There  is  only  the  law  of 
Christ,  there  are  only  the  duties  of  Christianity,  which 
can  secure  your  future,  by  securing  at  the  same  time 
humanity. ' ' 

275 


276  The  DUTIES  of  CHRISTIANITY 

Duties  must  be  fulfilled,  else  they  are  an  idle  word. 
And  who  would  dispute  that  there  is  a  positive  duty  in 
that  law,  "Love  thy  neighbour  as  thou  lovest  thyself. 
Do  unto  others  as  thou  wouldst  that  others  do  unto 
thee. "  Now,  if  there  are  duties  in  that  law  comprised, 
who  shall  execute  them,  if  free  and  powerful  nations 
do  not  execute  them?  No  government  can  meddle 
with  the  private  relations  of  its  millions  of  citizens  so 
much  as  to  enforce  the  positive  virtue  of  Christian 
charity,  in  the  thousand-fold  complications  of  private 
life.  That  will  be  impossible ;  and  our  Saviour  did  not 
teach  impossibilities.  By  commanding  charity  toward 
fellow-men  in  human  relations.  He  commanded  it  also 
to  governments.  ' 

Yes,  gentlemen,  as  long  as  the  principles  of  Chris- 
tian morality  are  not  carried  up  into  the  international 
relations — as  long  as  the  fragile  wisdom  of  political 
exigencies  overrules  the  doctrines  of  Christ,  there  is  no 
freedom  on  earth  firm,  and  the  future  of  no  nation 
sure.  But  let  a  powerful  nation  like  yours  raise  Chris- 
tian morality  into  its  public  conduct,  that  nation  will 
have  a  future  against  which  the  very  gates  of  hell  itself 
will  not  prevail.  The  morality  of  its  policy  will  react 
upon  the  morality  of  its  individuals,  and  preserve  it 
from  domestic  vice,  which,  without  that  prop,  ever  yet 
has  attended  too  much  prosperity,  and  ever  yet  was 
followed  by  a  dreadful  fall.  The  morality  of  its  policy 
will  support  justice  and  freedom  on  earth,  and  thus 
augmenting  the  number  of  free  nations,  all  acting 
upon  the  same  principle,  its  very  future  will  be  placed 
under  the  guarantee  of  them  all,  and  preserve  it  from 
foreign  danger — which  is  better  to  prevent  than  to 
repel.     And  its  future  will  be  placed  under  the  guar- 


By  LOUIS   KOSSUTH  277 

antee  of  the  Almighty  himself,  who,  true  to  His  eternal 
decrees,  proved,  through  the  downfall  of  so  many 
mighty  nations,  that  He  always  punished  the  fathers 
in  the  coming  generations;  but  alike  bountiful  as  just, 
will  not  and  cannot  forsake  those  to  whom  He  gave 
power  to  carry  out  His  laws  on  earth,  and  who  will- 
ingly answered  His  divine  call.  Power  in  itself  never 
yet  was  sure.  It  is  right  which  makes  power  firm; 
and  it  is  community  which  makes  right  secure.  The 
task  of  PETER'S  apoStolate  is  accomplished — the 
Churches  are  founded  in  the  Christian  world.  The 
task  of  PAUL'S  apostolate  is  accomplished — the 
abuses  of  fanaticism  and  intolerance  are  redressed. 
But  the  task  of  him  whom  the  Saviour  most  loved,  is 
not  yet  accomplished.  The  gospel  of  charity  rules  not 
yet  the  Christian  world;  and  without  charity,  Chris- 
tianity, you  know,  is  "but  sounding  brass  and  a  tink- 
ling cymbal. " 

Which  is  the  nation  to  achieve  that  triumph  of 
Christianity  by  protecting  justice  out  of  charity? 
Which  shall  do  it  if  not  yours?  Whom  the  Lord  has 
blessed  above  all,  from  whom  He  much  expects, 
because  He  has  given  her  much. 

Ye  Ministers  of  the  Gospel,  who  devote  your  lives 
to  expound  the  eternal  truths  of  the  book  of  life, 
remember  my  humble  words,  and  remind  those  who, 
with  pious  hearts,  listen  to  your  sacred  words,  that 
half  virtue  is  no  virtue  at  all,  and  that  there  is  no 
difference  in  the  duties  of  charity  between  public  and 
private  life. 

Ye  Missionaries,  who  devote  your  lives  to  the  propa- 
gation of  Christianity,  before  you  embark  for  the 
dangers    of    far,    inhospitable    shores,    remind    those 


278  The  DUTIES  of  CHRISTIANITY 

whom  )^ou  leave,  that  the  example  of  a  nation  exercis- 
ing right  and  justice  on  earth  by  charity  would  be  the 
mightiest  propagandism  of  Christian  religion. 

Ye  Patriots,  loving  your  country's  future,  and  anx- 
ious about  her  security,  remember  the  admonitions  of 
history — remember  that  the  freedom,  the  power,  and 
the  prosperity  in  which  your  country  glories,  is  no 
new  apparition  on  earth;  others  also  had  it,  and  yet 
they  are  gone.  The  prudence  with  which  your  fore- 
fathers have  founded  this  commonwealth,  the  courage 
with  which  you  develop  it,  other  nations  also  have 
shown,  and  still  they  are  gone. 

And  ye  ladies;  ye  fairest  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of 
love,  which  vivifies  the  universe,  remember  my  words. 
The  heart  of  man  is  given  into  your  tender  hands. 
You  mould  it  in  its  infancy.  You  imprint  the  lasting 
mark  of  character  upon  man's  brow.  You  ennoble  his 
youth;  you  soften  the  harshness  of  his  manhood;  you 
are  the  guardian  angels  of  his  hoary  age.  All  your 
vocation  is  love,  and  your  life  is  charity.  The  religion 
of  charity  wants  your  apostolate,  and  requires  your 
aid.  It  is  to  you  I  appeal,  and  leave  the  sublime  topic 
of  my  humble  reflections  to  the  meditations  of  your 
Christian  hearts. 


THE  NECESSITY  OF  OUTSIDE  AGITATION. 
Copyright,  Lee  &  Shepard.  Reprinted  with  permis- 
sion.    By  WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

IT  is  a  singular  fact  that  the  freer  a  nation  becomes, 
the  more  iitterly  democratic  the  form  of  its  insti- 
tutions, this  outside  agitation,  this  pressure  of  public 
opinion  to  direct  political  action,  becomes  more  and 
more  necessary.  The  general  judgment  is  that  the 
freest  possible  government  produces  the  freest  possible 
men  and  women — the  most  individual,  the  least  servile 
to  the  judgment  of  others.  But  a  moment's  reflection 
will  show  any  man  that  this  is  an  unreasonable 
expectation,  and  that,  on  the  contrary,  entire  equality 
and  freedom  in  political  forms  almost  inevitably  tend 
to  make  the  individual  subside  into  the  mass,  and  lose 
his  identity  in  the  general  whole.  Suppose  we  stood 
in  England  to-night.  There  is  the  nobility,  and  here 
is  the  Church.  There  is  the  trading  class,  and  here  is 
the  literary.  A  broad  gulf  separates  the  four;  and 
provided  a  member  of  either  can  conciliate  his  own 
section,  he  can  afford,  in  a  very  large  measure,  to 
despise  the  judgment  of  the  other  three.  He  has,  to 
some  extent,  a  refuge  and  a  breakwater  against  the 
tyranny  of  what  we  call  public  opinion.  But  in  a 
coimtry  like  ours,  of  absolute  democratic  equality, 
public  opinion  is  not  only  omnipotent,  it  is  omni- 
present. There  is  no  refuge  from  its  tyranny ;  there 
is  no  hiding  from  its  reach ;  and  the  result  is  that,  if 
you  take  the  old  Greek  lantern,  and  go  about  to  seek 
among  a  hundred,  you  will  find  not  one  single  Ameri- 
can who  really  has  not,  or  who  does  not  fancy  at  least 
that  he  has  something  to  gain  or  lose  in  his  ambition, 
his  social  life,  or  his  business,  from  the  good  opinion 

279 


28o    NECESSITY  of  OUTSIDE   AGITATION 

and  the  votes  of  those  about  him.  And  the  conse- 
quence is,  that, — instead  of  being  a  mass  of  indi- 
viduals, each  one  fearlessly  blurting  out  his  own 
convictions, — as  a  nation,  compared  with  other 
nations,  we  are  a  mass  of  cowards.  More  than  any 
other  people,  we  are  afraid  of  each  other. 

If  you  were  a  caucus  to-night.  Democratic  or  Repub- 
lican, and  I  were  your  orator,  none  of  you  could  get 
beyond  the  necessary  and  timid  limitations  of  party. 
You  not  only  would  not  demand,  you  would  not  allow 
me  to  utter,  one  word  of  what  you  really  thought,  and 
what  I  thought.  You  would  demand  of  me — and  my 
value  as  a  caucus  speaker  would  depend  entirely  on 
the  adroitness  and  the  vigilance  with  which  I  met  the 
demand — that  I  should  not  utter  one  single  word 
which  would  compromise  the  vote  of  next  week. 
That  is  politics;  so  with  the  press.  Seemingly  inde- 
pendent, and  sometimes  really  so,  the  press  can  afford 
only  to  mount  the  cresting  wave,  not  go  beyond  it. 
The  editor  might  as  well  shoot  his  reader  with  a  bullet 
as  with  a  new  idea.  He  must  hit  the  exact  line  of  the 
opinion  of  the  day.  I  am  not  finding  fault  with  him ; 
I  am  only  describing  him.  Some  three  years  ago  I 
took  to  one  of  the  freest  of  the  Boston  journals  a  letter, 
and  by  appropriate  consideration  induced  its  editor  to 
print  it.  And  as  we  glanced  along  its  contents,  and 
came  to  the  concluding  statement,  he  said:  "Couldn't 
you  omit  that?"  I  said,  "No;  I  wrote  it  for  that;  it 
is  the  gist  of  the  statement."  "Well,"  said  he,  "it  is 
true ;  there  is  not  a  boy  in  the  streets  that  does  not 
know  it  is  true;  but  I  wish  you  could  omit  it." 

I  insisted ;  and  the  next  morning,  fairly  and  justly, 
he  printed  the  whole.     Side  by  side  he  put  an  article 


By  WENDELL    PHILLIPS  281 

of  his  own,  in  which  he  said,  "We  copy  in  the  next 
column  an  article  from  Mr.  Phillips,  and  we  only 
regret  the  absurd  and  unfounded  statement  with  which 
he  concludes  it."  He  had  kept  his  promise  by  print- 
ing' the  article ;  he  saved  his  reputation  by  printing  the 
comment.  And  that,  again,  is  the  inevitable,  the 
essential  limitation  of  the  press  in  a  republican  com- 
munity. Our  institutions,  floating  unanchored  on  the 
shifting  surface  of  popular  opinion,  cannot  afford  to 
hold  back,  or  to  draw  forward,  a  hated  question,  and 
compel  a  reluctant  public  to  look  at  it  and  to  consider 
it.  Hence,  as  you  see  at  once,  the  moment  a  large 
issue,  twenty  years  ahead  of  its  age,  presents  itself  to 
the  consideration  of  an  empire  or  of  a  republic,  just 
in  proportion  to  the  freedom  of  its  institutions  is  the 
necessity  of  a  platform  outside  of  the  press,  of  politics, 
and  of  its  Church,  whereon  stand  men  with  no  candi- 
date to  elect,  with  no  plan  to  carry,  with  no  reputation 
to  stake,  with  no  object  but  the  truth,  no  purpose  but 
to  tear  the  question  open  and  let  the  light  through  it. 
So  much  in  explanation  of  a  word  infinitely  hated, — 
agitation  and  agitators, — but  an  element  which  the 
progress  of  modern  government  has  developed  more 
and  more  every  day. 


WASHINGTON'S  INAUGURATION.  From  "Ora- 
tions and  After-Dinner  Speeches."  Copyright,  The 
Cassell  Publishing-  Company.  Reprinted  with  per- 
mission.    By  CHAUNCEY  M.  DEPEW. 

WE  celebrate  to-day  the  Centenary  of  our  Nation- 
ality. One  hundred  years  ago  the  United 
States  began  their  existence.  The  powers  of  the 
government  were  assumed  by  the  people  of  the  Repub- 
lic, and  they  became  the  sole  source  of  authority.  The 
solemn  ceremonial  of  the  first  inauguration,  the 
reverent  oath  of  Washington,  the  acclaim  of  the  multi- 
tude greeting  their  President,  marked  the  most  unique 
event  of  modern  times  in  the  development  of  free 
institutions. 

No  man  ever  stood  for  so  much  to  his  country  and  to 
mankind  as  George  Washington.  Hamilton,  Jeffer- 
son, and  Adams,  Madison,  and  Jay,  each  represented 
some  of  the  elements  which  formed  the  Union :  Wash- 
ington embodied  them  all.  They  fell  at  times  under 
popular  disapproval,  were  burned  in  effigy,  were 
stoned;  but  he  with  unerring  judgment  was  always  the 
leader  of  the  people.  Milton  said  of  Cromwell,  that 
"war  made  him  great,  peace  greater."  The  superi- 
ority of  Washington's  character  and  genius  was  more 
conspicuous  in  the  formation  of  our  government  and 
in  putting  it  on  indestructible  foundations,  than  in 
leading  armies  to  victory  and  conquering  the  inde- 
pendence of  his  country.  He  inspired  the  movement 
for  the  Republic,  was  the  President  and  dominant 
spirit  of  the  Convention  which  framed  its  Constitution, 
and  its  President  for  eight  years,  and  guided  its  course 
until  satisfied  that  moving  safely  along  the  broad  high- 
way of  time,  it  would  be  surely  ascending  toward  the 

282 


By  CHAUNCEY   M.    DEPEW  283 

first  place  among  the  nations  of  the  world,  the  asylum 
of  the  oppressed,  the  home  of  the  free. 

We  stand  to-day  upon  the  dividing-  line  between  the 
first  and  second  century  of  constitutional  government. 
There  are  no  clouds  overhead,  and  no  convulsions 
under  our  feet.  We  reverently  return  thanks  to 
Almighty  God  for  the  past,  and  with  confident  and 
hopeful  promise  march  upon  sure  ground  toward  the 
future.  The  simple  facts  of  these  hundred  years 
paralyze  the  imagination,  and  we  contemplate  the  vast 
accumulations  of  the  century  with  awe  and  pride. 
Our  population  has  grown  from  four  to  sixty-five  mil- 
lions. Its  center  moving,  westward  five  hundred  miles 
since  1789,  is  eloquent  with  the  foimding  of  cities  and 
the  birth  of  States.  New  settlements,  clearing  the 
forests  and  subduing  the  prairies,  and  adding  four 
millions  to  the  few  thousands  of  farms  which  were  the 
support  of  Washington's  Republic,  create  one  of  the 
great  granaries  of  the  world  and  open  exhaustless 
reservoirs  of  national  wealth. 

The  infant  industries,  which  the  first  act  of  our 
administration  sought  to  encourage,  now  give  remuner- 
ative employment  to  more  people  than  inhabited  the 
Republic  at  the  beginning  of  Washington's  Presi- 
dency. The  grand  total  of  their  annual  output  of 
seven  thousand  millions  of  dollars  in  value  places  the 
United  States  first  among  the  manufacturing  countries 
of  the  earth.  One-half  of  all  the  railroads,  and  one- 
quarter  of  all  the  telegraph  lines  of  the  world  within 
our  borders,  testify  to  the  volume,  variety,  and  value 
of  an  internal  commerce  which  makes  these  States,  if 
need  be,  independent  and  self-supporting.  These 
hundred  years  of  development  under  favorable  polit- 


284        WASHINGTON'S    INAUGURATION 

ical  conditions  have  brought  the  sum  of  our  national 
wealth  to  a  figure  which  is  past  the  results  of  a  thou- 
sand years  for  the  mother  land,  herself  otherwise  the 
richest  of  modern  empires. 

During  this  generation  a  civil  war  of  unequaled 
magnitude  caused  the  expenditure  and  loss  of  eight 
thousand  millions  of  dollars,  and  killed  six  hundred 
thousand  and  permanently  disabled  over  a  million 
young  men;  and  yet  the  impetuous  progress  of  the 
North  and  the  marvelous  industrial  development  of 
the  new  and  free  South  have  obliterated  the  evidences 
of  destruction  and  made  the  war  a  memory,  and  have 
stimulated  production  until  our  annual  surplus  nearly 
equals  that  of  England,  France,  and  Germany  com- 
bined. The  teeming  millions  of  Asia  till  the  patient 
soil  and  work  the  shuttle  and  loom  as  their  fathers 
have  done  for  ages ;  modern  Europe  has  felt  the  influ- 
ence and  received  the  benefit  of  the  incalculable  multi- 
plication of  force  by  inventive  genius  since  the 
Napoleonic  wars;  and  yet,  only  two  hundred  and 
sixty-nine  years  after  the  little  band  of  Pilgrims 
landed  on  Plymouth  Rock,  our  people,  numbering  less 
than  one-fifteenth  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  globe,  do 
one-third  of  its  mining,  one-fourth  of  its  manufactur- 
ing, one-fifth  of  its  agriculture,  and  own  one-sixth  of 
its  wealth. 

No  crisis  has  been  too  perilous  for  its  powers,  no 
evolution  too  rapid  for  its  adaptation,  and  no  expansion 
beyond  its  easy  grasp  and  administration.  It  has 
assimilated  diverse  nationalities  with  warring  tradi- 
tions, customs,  conditions,  and  languages,  imbued 
them  with  its  spirit,  and  won  their  passionate  loyalty 
and  love. 


By  CHAUNCEY   M.    DEPEW  285 

The  flower  of  the  youth  of  the  nations  of  Con- 
tinental Europe  are  conscripted  from  productive 
industries  and  drilling  in  camps.  Vast  armies  stand 
in  battle  array  along  the  frontiers,  and  a  Kaiser's 
whim  or  a  Minister's  mistake  may  precipitate  the  most 
destructive  war  of  modern  times. 

But  for  us  no  army  exhausts  our  resources  nor  con- 
sumes our  youth.  Our  navy  must  needs  increase  in 
order  that  the  protecting  flag  may  follow  the  expand- 
ing commerce  which  is  to  successfully  compete  in  all 
the  markets  of  the  world.  The  sun  of  our  destiny  is 
still  rising,  and  its  rays  illumine  vast  territories  as  yet 
unoccupied  and  undeveloped,  and  which  are  to  be  the 
happy  homes  of  millions  of  people. 

The  spirit  of  Washington  fills  the  executive  office. 
Presidents  may  not  rise  to  the  full  measure  of  his 
greatness,  but  they  must  not  fall  below  his  standard  of 
public  duty  and  obligation.  His  life  and  character, 
conscientiously  studied  and  thoroughly  understood  by 
coming  generations,  will  be  for  them  a  liberal  educa- 
tion for  private  life  and  public  station,  for  citizenship 
and  patriotism,  for  love  and  .devotion  to  Union  and 
liberty.  With  their  inspiring  past  and  splendid  pres- 
ent, the  people  of  these  United  States,  heirs  of  a  hun- 
dred years  marvelously  rich  in  all  which  adds  to  the 
glory  and  greatness  of  a  nation,  with  an  abiding  trust 
in  the  stability  and  elasticity  of  their  Constitution,  and 
an  abounding  faith  in  themselves,  hail  the  coming 
century  with  hope  and  joy. 


ADDRESS  AT  THE  HARVARD  ALUMNI 
DINNER.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By 
BOOKER  T.   WASHINGTON. 

MR.  PRESIDENT  AND  GENTLEMEN:  It 
would  in  some  measure  relieve  my  embarrass- 
ment if  I  could,  even  in  a  slight  degree,  feel  myself 
worthy  of  the  great  honor  which  you  do  me  to-day. 
Why  you  have  called  me  from  the  Black  Belt  of  the 
South,  from  among  my  humble  people,  to  share  in  the 
honors  of  this  occasion,  is  not  for  me  to  explain;  and 
j'et  it  may  not  be  inappropriate  for  me  to  suggest  that 
it  seems  to  me  that  one  of  the  most  vital  questions  that 
touch  our  American  life  is  how  to  bring  the  strong, 
wealthy  and  learned  into  helpful  touch  with  the  poor- 
est, most  ignorant  and  humble,  and  at  the  same  time 
make  the  one  appreciate  the  vitalizing,  strengthening 
influence  of  the  other.  How  shall  we  make  the  man- 
sions on  yon  Beacon  Street  feel  and  see  the  need  of 
the  spirits  in  the  lowliest  cabin  in  Alabama  cotton 
fields  or  Louisiana  sugar  bottoms?  This  problem  Har- 
vard University  is  solving,  not  by  bringing  itself 
down,  but  by  bringing  the  masses  up. 

If  through  me,  an  humble  representative,  seven  mil- 
lions of  my  people  in  the  South  might  be  permitted  to 
send  a  message  to  Harvard — Harvard  that  offered  up 
on  death's  altar  young  Shaw,  and  Russell,  and  Lowell, 
and  scores  of  others,  that  we  might  have  a  free  and 
united  country,  that  message  would  be,  "Tell  them 
that  the  sacrifice  was  not  in  vain.  Tell  them  that  by 
the  way  of  the  shop,  the  field,  the  skilled  hand,  habits 
of  thrift  and  economy,  by  way  of  industrial  school  and 
college,  we  are  coming.  We  are  crawling  up,  working 
up,   yea,    bursting    up.      Often    through    oppression, 

286 


By  BOOKER   T.    WASHINGTON  387 

unjust  discrimination  and  prejudice,  but  throug-h  them 
all  we  are  coming  up,  and  with  proper  habits,  intel- 
ligence and  property,  there  is  no  power  on  earth  that 
can  permanently  stay  our  progress." 

If  my  life  in  the  past  has  meant  anything  in  the  lift- 
ing up  of  my  people  and  the  bringing  about  of  better 
relations  between  your  race  and  mine,  I  assure  you 
from  this  day  it  will  mean  doubly  more.  In  the 
economy  of  God  there  is  but  one  standard  by  which  an 
individual  can  succeed — there  is  but  one  for  a  race. 
This  country  demands  that  every  race  measure  itself 
by  the  American  standard.  By  it  a  race  must  rise  or 
fall,  succeed  or  fail,  and  in  the  last  analysis  mere  senti- 
ment counts  for  little.  During  the  next  half  century 
and  more,  my  race  must  continue  passing  through  the 
severe  American  crucible.  We  are  to  be  tested  in  our 
patience,  our  forbearance,  our  perseverance,  our  power 
to  endure  wrong,  to  withstand  temptations,  to  econo- 
mize, to  acquire  and  use  skill ;  our  ability  to  compete, 
to  succeed  in  commerce,  to  disregard  the  superficial  for 
the  real,  the  appearance  for  the  substance,  to  be  great 
and  yet  small,  learned  and  yet  simple,  high  and  yet 
the  servant  of  all.  This,  this  is  the  passport  to  all  that 
is  best  in  the  life  of  our  Republic,  and  the  Negro  must 
possess  it,  or  be  debarred. 

While  we  are  thus  being  tested,  I  beg  of  you  to 
remember  that  wherever  our  life  touches  yours,  we 
help  or  hinder.  Wherever  your  life  touches  ours,  you 
make  us  stronger  or  weaker.  No  member  of  your  race 
in  any  part  of  our  country  can  harm  the  meanest 
member  of  mine,  without  the  proudest  and  bluest 
blood  in  Massachusetts  being  degraded.  When  Mis- 
sissippi commits  crime,  New  England  commits  crime. 


288    ADDRESS  at  HARVARD  ALUMNI  DINNER 

and  in  so  much,  lowers  the  standard  of  your  civiliza- 
tion. There  is  no  escape — man  drags  man  down,  or 
man  lifts  man  up. 

In  working  out  our  destiny,  while  the  main  burden 
and  center  of  activity  must  be  with  us,  we  shall  need, 
in  a  large  measure  in  the  years  that  are  to  come,  as  we 
have  in  the  past,  the  help,  the  encouragement,  the  guid- 
ance that  the  strong  can  give  the  weak.  Thus  helped, 
we  of  both  races  in  the  South  soon  shall  throw  off 
the  shackles  of  racial  and  sectional  prejudice,  and  rise, 
as  Harvard  University  has  risen  and  as  we  all  should 
rise,  above  the  clouds  of  ignorance,  narrowness  and 
selfishness,  into  that  atmosphere,  that  pure  sunshine, 
where  it  will  be  our  highest  ambition  to  serve  Man, 
our  brother,  regardless  of  race  or  previous  condition. 


BULGARIAN  HORRORS.    By  WILLIAM  EWART 
GLADSTONE. 

SINCE  the  ominous  declaration  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field  on  the  status  quo,  or  "as  you  were"  policy, 
there  has  appeared  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bourke,  the 
Under-Secretary  of  the  Foreign  Office,  which  could 
not  have  been  written  without  higher  sanction.  Of 
this  letter,  the  positive  part  is  null,  the  negative  part 
important.  It  assures  us  of  the  indignation  of  the 
Government  at  the  crimes  committed  by  the  Turks. 
It  might  as  well  assure  us  of  their  indignation  at  the 
crimes  of  Danton,  or  of  Robespierre,  or  of  Nana  Sahib. 
Indignation  is  froth,  except  as  it  leads  to  action.  This 
indignation  has  led,  he  says,  to  remonstrance.  I  say 
that  mere  remonstrance,  in  this  case,  is  mockery. 
The  only  two  things  that  are  worth  saying,  the  Under- 
Secretary  does  not  say.  The  first  of  them  would  have 
been  that,  until  these  horrible  outrages  are  redressed, 
and  their  authors  punished,  the  British  Government 
would  withdraw  from  Turkey  the  moral  and  even 
material  support  we  had  been  lending  her  against 
Europe,  The  other  was,  that  after  crimes  of  so  vast  a 
scale  and  so  deep  a  dye,  the  British  Government  would 
no  longer  be  a  party  to  the  maintenance  of  Turkish 
administration  in  Bulgaria.  It  is,  then,  the  negative 
part  of  this  letter  that  signifies.  Mr.  Bourke's  words, 
viewing  their  date,  are  futile.  But  his  silence  is 
trumpet-tongued :  it  proclaims  that  even  last  week,  on 
the  27th  of  August,  the  Government  were  still  uncon- 
verted; and,  warning  us  what  we  have  to  expect,  it 
spurs  the  people  of  England  onwards  in  the  move- 
ment which  is  to  redeem  its  compromised  and  en- 
dangered honor. 

989 


290  BULGARIAN   HORRORS 

It  would  not  be  practicable,  even  if  it  were  honor- 
able, to  disguise  the  real  character  of  what  we  want 
from  the  Government.  It  is  a  change  of  attitude  and 
policy,  nothing  less.  We  want  them  to  imdo  and 
efface  that  too  just  impression,  which,  while  keeping 
their  own  countrymen  so  much  in  the  dark,  they  have 
succeeded  in  propagating  throughout  Europe,  that  we 
are  the  determined  supporters  of  the  Turk,  and  that, 
declaring  his  "integrity  and  independence"  essential 
to  "British  interest,"  we  have  winked  hard,  and  shall 
wink,  if  need  be,  harder  still,  according  to  the 
exigencies  of  the  case,  alike  at  his  crimes  and  at  his 
impotence.  We  want  to  place  ourselves  in  harmony 
with  the  general  sentiment  of  civilized  mankind, 
instead  of  being  any  longer,  as  we  seem  to  be,  the  Evil 
Genius  which  dogs,  and  mars,  and  baffles  it.  We 
want  to  make  the  Turk  understand  that,  in  conveying 
this  impression  by  word  and  act  to  his  mind,  the  Brit- 
ish Government  have  misunderstood,  and,  therefore, 
have  misrepresented,  the  sense  of  the  British  people. 

But  this  change  is  dependent  on  an  emphatic  expres- 
sion of  the  national  sentiment,  which  is  but  beginning 
to  be  heard.  It  has  grown  from  a  whisper  to  a  sound ; 
it  will  grow  from  a  sound  to  a  peal.  But  what,  until  it 
shall  vibrate  with  such  force  as  to  awaken  the  Admin- 
istration? It  is  melancholy,  but  it  is  also  true,  that 
we,  who  upon  this  Eastern  ground  fought  with  Russia, 
and  thought  Austria  slack,  and  Germany  all  but  servile, 
have  actually  for  months  past  been  indebted,  and  are 
even  now  indebted,  to  all  or  some  of  these  very 
Powers,  possibly  to  Russia  most  among  them,  for  hav- 
ing played  the  part  which  we  think  specially  our  own, 
in  resistance  to  tyranny,  in  befriending  the  oppressed, 


By  WILLIAM    EWART   GLADSTONE      291 

in  laboring  for  the  happiness  of  mankind.  I  say  the 
time  has  come  for  lis  to  emulate  Russia  by  sharing  in 
her  good  deeds,  and  to  reserve  our  opposition  until  she 
shall  visibly  endeavor  to  turn  them  to  evil  account. 

There  is  no  reason  to  apprehend  serious  difficulty  in 
the  Councils  of  Europe  on  this  subject.  All  the 
Powers,  except  ourselves,  have  already  been  working 
in  this  direction.  Nor  is  there  any  ground  to  suppose 
that  the  Ottoman  Government  will  tenaciously  resist  a 
scheme  based  on  the  intention  to  do  all  in  its  favor  that 
its  own  misconduct,  and  the  fearful  crimes  of  its 
trusted  agents,  have  left  possible.  To  do  this  Govern- 
ment justice,  a  distinction  must  be  drawn  between 
what  depends  upon  a  decision  to  be  taken  at  Constanti- 
nople once  for  all,  and  the  permanent  vitalizing  force 
required  for  the  discharge  of  the  daily  duties  of  admin- 
istration all  over  its  vast  empire.  The  central  agency  at 
the  capital,  always  under  the  eye  of  the  representatives 
of  the  European  Powers  and  in  close  contact  with  them, 
has  acquired,  and  traditionally  transmits,  a  good  deal 
of  the  modes  of  European  speech  and  thought.  It  is 
when  they  try  to  convey  these  influences  to  the  prov- 
inces and  the  subordinate  agents,  who  share  little  or 
none  of  that  beneficial  contact  and  supervision,  that 
they,  except  here  and  there  by  some  happy  accident  of 
personal  virtue,  habitually  and  miserably  break  down. 
The  promises  of  a  Turkish  Ministry  given  simply  to 
Europe  are  generally  good;  those  given  to  its  own 
subjects  or  concerning  its  own  affairs  are,  without 
imputing  absolute  mendacity,  of  such  tried  and  demon- 
strated worthlessness,  that  any  Ambassador  or  any 
State,  who  should  trust  them,  must  come  under  sus- 
picion of  nothing  less  than  fraud  by  wilful  connivance. 


292  BULGARIAN    HORRORS 

But  I  return  to,  and  I  end  with,  that  which  is  the 
Omega  as  well  as  the  Alpha  of  this  great  and  most 
mournful  case.  An  old  servant  of  the  Crown  and 
State,  I  entreat  my  countrymen,  upon  whom  far  more 
than  perhaps  any  other  people  of  Europe  it  depends, 
to  require,  and  to  insist,  that  our  Government  which 
has  been  working  in  one  direction,  shall  work  in  the 
other,  and  shall  apply  all  its  vigor  to  concur  with  the 
other  States  of  Europe,  in  obtaining  the  extinction  of 
the  Turkish  executive  power  in  Bulgaria.  Let  the 
Turks  now  carry  away  their  abuses  in  the  only  possible 
manner,  namely,  by  carrying  off  themselves.  Their 
Zaptiehs  and  their  Mudirs,  their  Bimbashis  and  their 
Yuzbachis,  their  Kaimakams  and  their  Pashas,  one  and 
all,  bag  and  baggage,  shall,  I  hope,  clear  out  from  the 
province  they  have  desolated  and  profaned.  This 
thorough  riddance,  this  most  blessed  deliverance,  is 
the  only  reparation  we  can  make  to  the  memory  of 
those  heaps  on  heaps  of  dead;  to  the  violated  purity 
alike  of  matron,  of  maiden,  and  of  child ;  to  the  civiliza- 
tion which  has  been  affronted  and  shamed ;  to  the  laws 
of  God  or,  if  you  like,  of  Allah ;  to  the  moral  sense  of 
mankind  at  large.  There  is  not  a  criminal  in  an 
European  jail,  there  is  not  a  cannibal  in  the  South  Sea 
Islands,  whose  indignation  would  not  rise  and  overboil 
at  the  recital  of  that  which  has  been  done,  which  has 
too  late  been  examined,  but  which  remains  unavenged ; 
which  has  left  behind  all  the  foul  and  all  the  fierce 
passions  that  produced  it,  and  which  may  again  spring 
up  in  another  murderous  harvest,  from  the  soil  soaked 
and  reeking  with  blood,  and  in  the  air  tainted  with 
every  imaginable  deed  of  crime  and  shame.  That  such 
things  should  be  done  once,  is  a  damaging  disgrace  to 


By  WILLIAM    EWART    GLADSTONE      293 

that  portion  of  our  race  which  did  them;  that  a  door 
should  be  left  open  for  their  ever-so-barely  possible 
repetition  would  spread  that  shame  over  the  whole. 
Better,  we  may  justly  tell  the  Sultan,  almost  any 
inconvenience,  difficulty,  or  loss  associated  with 
Bulgaria, 

"Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light, 
The  mockery  of  thy  people,  and  their  bane." 

We  may  ransack  the  annals  of  the  world,  but  I  know 
not  what  research  can  furnish  us  with  so  portentous  an 
example  of  the  fiendish  misuse  of  the  powers  estab- 
lished by  God  "for  the  punishment  of  evil-doers,  and 
for  the  encouragement  of  them  that  do  well."  No 
Government  ever  has  so  sinned;  none  has  so  proved 
itself  incorrigible  in  sin,  or  which  is  the  same,  so 
impotent  for  jeformation.  If  it  be  allowable  that  the 
Executive  power  of  Turkey  should  renew  at  this  great 
crisis,  by  permission  or  authority  of  Europe,  the 
charter  of  its  existence  in  Bulgaria,  then  there  is  not  on 
record,  since  the  beginnings  of  political  society,  a  pro- 
test that  man  has  lodged  against  intolerable  misgovern- 
ment,  or  a  stroke  he  has  dealt  at  loathsome  tyranny, 
that  ought  not  henceforward  to  be  branded  as  a  crime. 


SECOND    INAUGURAL    ADDRESS.     By   ABRA- 
HAM LINCOLN. 

FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN:  At  this  second  ap- 
pearing to  take  the  oath  of  the  presidential 
office,  there  is  less  occasion  for  an  extended  address 
than  there  was  at  the  first.  Then  a  statement  somewhat 
in  detail  of  a  course  to  be  pursued  seemed  very  fitting 
and  proper.  Now,  at  the  expiration  of  four  years, 
during  which  public  declarations  have  been  constantly 
called  forth  on  every  point  and  phase  of  the  great  con- 
test which  still  absorbs  the  attention  and  engrosses  the 
energies  of  the  nation,  little  that  is  new  could  be  pre- 
sented. 

The  progress  of  our  arms,  upon  which  all  else  chiefly 
depends,  is  as  well  known  to  the  public  as  to  myself, 
and  it  is,  I  trust,  reasonably  satisfactory  and  encourag- 
ing to  all.  With  high  hope  for  the  future,  no  pre- 
diction in  regard  to  it  is  ventured.  On  the  occasion 
corresponding  to  this  four  years  ago,  all  thoughts  were 
anxiously  directed  to  an  impending  civil  war.  All 
dreaded  it :  all  sought  to  avert  it.  While  the  inaugural 
address  was  being  delivered  from  this  place,  devoted 
altogether  to  saving  the  Union  without  war,  insurgent 
agents  were  in  the  city  seeking  to  destroy  it  without 
war — seeking  to  dissolve  the  Union  and  divide  effects 
by  negotiation.  Both  parties  deprecated  war;  but  one 
of  them  would  make  war  rather  than  let  the  nation 
survive,  and  the  other  would  accept  war  rather  than 
let  it  perish.  And  the  war  came.  One-eighth  of  the 
whole  population  were  colored  slaves,  not  distributed 
generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized  in  the  southern 
part  of  it. 

These  slaves   constituted  a  peculiar   and   powerful 

294 


By  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN  295 

interest.  All  knew  that  this  interest  was  somehow  the 
cause  of  the  war.  To  strengthen,  perpetuate  and 
extend  this  interest  was  the  object  for  which  the 
insurgents  would  rend  the  Union,  even  by  war,  while 
the  Government  claimed  no  right  to  do  more  than  to 
restrict  the  territorial  enlargement  of  it. 

Neither  party  expected  for  the  war  the  magnitude  or 
the  duration  which  it  has  already  attained.  Neither 
anticipated  that  the  cause  of  the  conflict  might  cease 
with,  or  even  before,  the  conflict  itself  should  cease. 
Each  looked  for  an  easier  triumph,  and  a  result  less 
fundamental  and  astounding. 

Both  read  the  same  Bible,  and  prayed  to  the  same 
God;  and  each  invokes  His  aid  against  the  other. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  any  man  should  dare  to 
ask  a  just  God's  assistance  in  wringing  their  bread 
from  the  sweat  of  other  men's  faces;  but  let  us  judge 
not,  that  we  be  not  judged. 

The  prayers  of  both  could  not  be  answered.  That 
of  neither  has  been  answered  fully.  The  Almighty 
has  His  own  purposes. 

"Woe  unto  the  world  because  of  offences,  for  it  must 
needs  be  that  offences  come ;  but  woe  to  that  man  by 
whom  the  offence  cometh. ' '  If  we  shall  suppose  that 
American  slavery  is  one  of  these  offences,  which  in  the 
providence  of  God  must  needs  come,  but  which,  hav- 
ing continued  through  His  appointed  time,  He  now 
wills  to  remove,  and  that  He  gives  to  both  North  and 
South  this  terrible  war  as  the  woe  due  to  those  by 
whom  the  offence  came,  shall  we  discern  therein  any 
departure  from  those  divine  attributes  which  the 
believers  m  a  living  God  always  ascribe  to  Him? 
Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently  do  we  pray,  that  this 


296         SECOND   INAUGURAL   ADDRESS 

mighty  scourge  of  war  may  speedily  pass  away.  Yet, 
if  God  wills  that  it  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled 
by  the  bondman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unre- 
quited toil  shall  be  sunk,  and  until  every  drop  of  blood 
drawn  with  the  lash  shall  be  paid  with  another  drawn 
with  the  sword ;  as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago, 
so  still  it  must  be  said,  "The  judgments  of  the  Lord 
are  true  and  righteous  altogether." 

With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all,  with 
firmness  in  the  right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right, 
let  us  strive  on  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in ;  to  bind  up 
the  nation's  wounds;  to  care  for  him  who  shall  have 
borne  the  battle,  and  for  his  widow  and  orphans;  to 
do  all  which  may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  a  last- 
ing peace  among  ourselves  and  with  all  nations. 


Dramatic  and  Humorous 
Selections 


297 


DRAMATIC    AND    HUMOROUS   SELECTIONS 

''Tragedy,   Comedy,  History,   Pastoral,  Scene   Individable, 
or  Poem  Unitmtted.'''' — Shakspere. 

PAGE 

Charlotte  Corday Thomas  Carlyle    ....  301 

When  Angry,  Count  a  Hundred    E.  Cavazza 305 

A  Speech  of  Prospero  ....     Shakspere 315 

Othello's  Address Shakspere 316 

My  Last  Chance       Anthony  Hope       .     .     .     .318 

The  Last  Soliloquy  of  Faustus  .  Christopher  Marlowe   .     .  324 

The  Chariot  Race Sophocles 326 

Speech  of  the  Rabbi     ....      Victor  Hugo 329 

Aunt  Hitty  Tarbox       ....  Kate  Doulgas  Wiggin      .  332 

The  Death  of  Rodriguez  .     .     .  Richard  Harding  Davis  .  335 

Dagger  Soliloquy Shakspere 341 

The  Forum  Scene Shakspere 343 

Wives  in  a  Social  Game    .     .     .     Afiofiymous 353 

Sohloquies,  "Hamlet"       .     .     .     Shakspere 357 

Lady  Gay  Spanker Dion  Boucicault   ....  364 

Death  of  Mme.  Defarge    .     .     .  Charles  Dickens   ....  367 

Scene  from  "The  Rivals"      .     .  Richard Brins ley  Sheridan  y]% 

Cleopatra's  Barge Shakspere 385 

Scene   From    "Cyrano  de  Ber- 

gerac" Edmond  Rostand      .     .     .  388 

Execution  of  Sidney  Carton       .  Charles  Dickens    ....  394 

The  Boat  Race Robert  Grant 398 

Scenes  from  "King  Henry  V."     Shakspere 406 

The  Necklace Guy  de  Maupassant      .     .  419 

Letter  Scene Shakspere 428 

Sleep- Walking  Scene    ....     Shakspere 431 

Scenes    from    "The    Road    to 

Ruin"       Thomas  Hoi  croft      .     .    .  434 

Anne  Bullen Shakspere 443 

Queen  Katherine Shakspere 445 

Potion  Scene Shakspere 451 

The  Sinking  of  the  Merrimac    .  Arthur  Dudley  Hall    .     .  453 

299 


CHARLOTTE     CORDAY.        From     "The     French 
Revolution."     By  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

AMID  the  dim  ferment  of  Caen  and  the  World, 
History  specially  notices  one  thing:  in  the  lobby 
of  the  Mansion  de  I'lntendance,  where  busy  Deputies 
are  coming  and  going,  a  young  Lady  with  an  aged 
valet,  taking  grave  graceful  leave  of  Deputy  Barbaroux. 
She  is  of  stately  Norman  figure ;  in  her  twenty-fifth 
year;  of  beautiful  still  countenance:  her  name  is 
Charlotte  Corday.  Barbaroux  has  given  her  a  Note  to 
Deputy  Duperret, — him  who  once  drew  his  sword  in 
the  effervescence.  Apparently  she  will  to  Paris  on 
some  errand?  "She  was  a  Republican  before  the 
revolution,  and  never  wanted  energy."  A  complete- 
ness, a  decision  is  in  this  fair  female  Figure:  "by 
energy  she  means  the  spirit  that  will  prompt  one  to 
sacrifice  him.self  for  his  country."  What  if  she,  this 
fair  young  Charlotte,  had  emerged  from  her  secluded 
stillness,  suddenly  like  a  Star;  cruel-lovely,  with  half- 
angelic,  half-daemonic  splendour;  to  gleam  for  a 
moment,  and  in  a  moment  be  extinguished :  to  be  held 
in  memory,  so  bright  complete  was  she,  through  long 
centuries!  Quitting  Cimmerian  Coalitions  without, 
and  the  dim-simmering  Twenty-five  millions  within, 
History  will  look  fixedly  at  this  one  fair  Apparition  of 
a  Charlotte  Corday;  will  note  whither  Charlotte 
moves,  how  the  little  Life  burns  forth  so  radiant,  then 
vanishes  swallowed  of  the  Night. 

With  Barbaroux's  Note  of  Introduction,  and  slight 
stock  of  luggage,  we  see  Charlotte  on  Tuesday  the 
ninth  of  July  seated  in  the  Caen  Diligence,  with  a 
place  for  Paris.  None  takes  farewell  of  her,  wishes 
her  Good-journey:    her  Father   will  find  a  line  left, 

301 


302  CHARLOTTE   CORDAY 

signifying  that  she  is  gone  to  England,  that  he  must 
pardon  her,  and  forget  her.  The  drowsy  Diligence 
lumbers  along;  amid  drowsy  talk  of  Politics,  and 
praise  of  the  Mountain ;  in  which  she  mingles  not :  all 
night,  all  day,  and  again  all  night.  On  Thursday, 
not  long  before  noon,  we  are  at  the  bridge  of 
Neuilly;  here  is  Paris  with  her  thousand  black 
domes,  the  goal  and  purpose  of  thy  journey !  Arrived 
at  the  Inn  de  la  Providence  in  the  Rue  des  Vieux 
Augustins,  Charlotte  demands  a  room;  hastens  to 
bed;  sleeps  all  afternoon  and  night,  till  the  morrow 
morning. 

On  the  morrow  morning,  she  delivers  her  Note  to 
Duperret.  It  relates  to  certain  Family  Papers  which 
are  in  the  Minister  of  the  Interior's  hand;  which  a  Nun 
at  Caen,  an  old  Convent-friend  of  Charlotte's,  has  need 
of;  which  Duperret  shall  assist  her  in  getting:  this 
then  was  Charlotte's  errand  to  Paris?  She  has  finished 
this,  in  the  course  of  Friday; — yet  says  nothing  of 
returning.  She  has  seen  and  silently  investigated 
several  things.  The  Convention,  in  bodily  reality,  she 
has  seen;  what  the  Mountain  is  like.  The  living 
physiognomy  of  Marat  she  could  not  see;  he  is  sick  at 
present,  and  confined  to  home. 

About  eight  on  the  Saturday  morning,  she  purchases 
a  large  sheath-knife  in  the  Palais  Royal;  then  straight- 
way, in  the  Place  des  Victoires,  takes  a  hackney-coach : 
"To  the  Rue  de  I'Ecole  de  Medecine,  No.  44."  It  is 
the  residence  of  the  Citoyen  Marat! — the  Citoyen 
Marat  is  ill,  and  cannot  be  seen ;  which  seems  to  disap- 
point her  much.  Her  business  is  with  Marat,  then? 
Hapless  beautiful  Charlotte;  hapless  squalid  Marat! 
From  Caen  in  the  utmost  West,  from  Neuchatel  in  the 


By  THOMAS   CARLYLE  303 

utmost  East,  they  two  are  drawing-  nigh  each  other; 
they  two  have,  very  strangely,  business  together.^ 
Charlotte,  returning  to  her  Inn,  despatches  a  short 
Note  to  Marat ;  signifying  that  she  is  from  Caen,  the 
seat  of  rebellion ;  that  she  desires  earnestly  to  see  him, 
and  "will  put  it  in  his  power  to  do  France  a  great 
service."  No  answer.  Charlotte  writes  another 
Note,  still  more  pressing;  sets  out  with  it  by  coach, 
about  seven  in  the  evening,  herself.  Tired  day- 
labourers  have  again  finished  their  Week;  huge  Paris 
is  circling  and  simmering,  manifold,  according  to  its 
vague  wont:  this  one  fair  Figure  has  decision  in  it; 
drives  straight, — towards  a  purpose. 

It  is  yellow  July  evening,  we  say,  the  thirteenth  of 
the  month;  eve  of  the  Bastille  day, — when  "M. 
Marat,"  four  years  ago,  in  the  crowd  of  the  Pont  Neuf, 
shrewdly  required  of  that  Besenval  Hussar-party, 
which  had  such  friendly  dispositions,  "to  dismount, 
and  give  up  their  arms,  then;"  and  became  notable 
among  Patriot  men.  Four  years:  what  a  road  he  has 
travelled ; — and  sits  now,  about  half-past  seven  of  the 
clock,  stewing  in  slipper-bath;  sore  afflicted;  ill  of 
Revolution  Fever.  Excessively  sick  and  worn,  poor 
man :  with  precisely  eleven-pence-half-penny  of  ready 
money,  in  paper;  with  slipper-bath;  strong  three- 
footed  stool  for  writing  on,  the  while ;  and  a  squalid — 
Washerwoman,  one  may  call  her:  that  is  his  civic 
establishment,  in  Medical-School  Street;  thither  and 
not  elsewhither  has  his  road  led  him.  Not  to  the 
reign  of  Brotherhood  and  Perfect  Felicity ;  yet  surely 
on  the  way  towards  that? — Hark,  a  rap  again!  A 
musical  woman's  voice,  refusing  to  be  rejected:  it  is 
the  Citoyenne  who  would  do  France  a  service.     Marat, 


304  CHARLOTTE   CORDAY 

recognizing  from  within,  cries,  Admit  her.     Charlotte 
Corday  is  admitted. 

Citoyen  Marat,  I  am  from  Caen,  the  seat  of  rebellion, 
and  wished  to  speak  with  you. — Be  seated,  mon  enfant. 
Now  what  are  the  Traitors  doing  at  Caen?  What 
Deputies  are  at  Caen?  —  Charlotte  names  some 
Deputies.  "Their  heads  shall  fall  within  a  fortnight," 
croaks  the  eager  People's  friend,  clutching  his  tablets 
to  write:  Barbaroux,  Petion,  writes  he  with  bare 
shrunk  arm,  turning  aside  in  the  bath:  P6tion,  and 
Louvet,  and — Charlotte  has  drawn  her  knife  from  the 
sheath;  plunges  it,  with  one  sure  stroke,  into  the 
writer's  heart.  "A  moi,  ch^re  amie.  Help,  dear!"  no 
more  could  the  Death-choked  say  or  shriek.  The  help- 
ful Washerwoman  running  in,  there  is  no  Friend  of  the 
People,  or  Friend  of  the  Washerwoman  left;  but  his 
life  with  a  groan  gushes  out,  indignant,  to  the  shades 
below, 


WHEN  ANGRY,  COUNT  A  HUNDRED.  Copy- 
right, 1892,  by  The  Century  Company.  Reprinted 
with  permission.     By  E.  CAVAZZA. 

THE  dining-room  of  a  house  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
Personages:  the  host,  hostess,  and  guests,  irre- 
proachable in  manner,  unapproachable  in  costume, 
politely  engaged  in  conversation — all  but  Mr.  Alfred 
Ames  and  Miss  Eva  Rosewarne,  who,  seated  side  by 
side,  regard  in  silence  their  respective  bouquets,  which 
lie  upon  the  tablecloth. 

Alfred  (slightly  embarrassed) — Miss  Rosewarne,  I 
hope  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I'm  not  to 
blame  for  this.  Until  I  read  your  name  in  the  billet 
handed  me  as  I  came  into  the  house,  I  had  no  idea  that 
you  were  to  be  here.  .  .  .  Our  short-lived  romance 
was  quite  unknown  to  anybody  but  ourselves;  Mrs. 
Leclerc  supposed  that  she  was  doing  me  a  great  favor 
— kind  hostess  that  she  is — in  giving  me  a  place  next  to 
you  at  her  table.  .  .  .  You  took  my  arm  silently. 
All  the  way  downstairs  I  was  trying  to  judge  whether 
you  were  annoyed  or  indifferent  at  this  unexpected 
meeting;  but  you  gave  no  sign.  I  have  not  forgotten 
that,  a  fortnight  ago,  you  said  you  would  never  speak 
to  me  again;  and  heaven  defend  me  from  expecting 
the  impossible,  that  a  woman  should  change  her  mind, 
or  speak  when  she  had  resolved  not  to  do  so!  I 
shall  not  ask  you  to  talk  to  me, — I  am  afraid  that 
you  would  not  say  anything  kind  if  you  should, — 
but  I  beg  as  a  great  favor,  not  to  me,  but  to  Mrs. 
Leclerc,  who  has  done  nothing  to  offend  you,  that  you 
will  appear  to  be  on  the  ordinary  terms  of  acquaintance 
with  me. 

Eva  (regards  him  for  an  instant  in  silence,  takes  up 

305 


3o6     WHEN   ANGRY,   COUNT   A   HUNDRED 

her  bouquet,  examines  it,  and  lays  it  down  upon  the 
table  again). 

Alfred — I  wish  to  spare  you  as  much  as  possible.  I 
will  gladly  do  more  than  my  share  of  the  talking.  In 
those  other  days,  when  we  were  friends,  I  never  had 
much  practice  at  that,  but  I  dare  say  I  can  manage  it. 
Ah!  I  have  an  idea — not  a  very  brilliant  one,  perhaps; 
but  it  may  serve.  ,  .  .  This  is  it:  I  once  heard  of 
a  man  who,  for  some  reason  or  other,  had  nothing  to 
say  one  evening  at  table.  So  he  turned  to  his  neigh- 
bor and  began  to  count  one,  two,  three,  four,  with 
expression.  Will  you  do  that — for  the  sake  of  our 
hostess?  It  commits  you  to  nothing.  It  surely  isn't 
talking  to  me.  What  information  can  I  get  from  hear- 
ing the  numerals  recited  in  the  tones  of  polite  society? 
.  .  .  Once  more,  let  me  ask  you  to  do  so  for  the 
sake  of  Mrs.  Leclerc. 

Eva  (assents  by  a  bend  of  her  golden  head). 

Alfred — Thank  you — if  I  may  presume  so  far.  I  am 
glad  that  I  never  vowed  not  to  speak  to  you ;  it  seems 
to  me  that  there  are  so  many  things  to  be  said.  And 
since  I  expect  to  sail  for  Europe  in  a  few  days,  to  be 
gone  indefinitely,  perhaps,  like  any  other  condemned 
man,  I  may  be  allowed  a  few  last  words. 

Eva — One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven. 

Alfred — You  know  that  I  loved  you  with  my  whole 
heart 

Eva  (with  haste) — Eight,  nine 

Alfred — And  now,  at  this  moment,  trying  to  recall 
the  beginning  of  the  end,  I  cannot  find  any  reason  why 
you  and  I  should  be  farther  apart  than  if  the  Atlantic 
were  already  between  us.     .     .     . 

Eva  (pensively) — Ten,  eleven,  twelve. 


By  E.    CAVAZZA  307 

Alfred— I  did  not  ask  you  to  explain  to  me  in  what 
way  I  displeased  you,  nor  to  divide  your  part  from  mine 
in  the  quarrel.  You  are  still  angry  with  me,  but  I 
shall  always  be  grateful  to  you.  For  a  few  days  I 
lived  in  Paradise;  and  it  isn't  every  man  who  can  say 
as  much.  It  gives  one,  afterward, — there  is  a  great 
deal  of  afterward  in  life,  Miss  Rosewame, — an  ideal 
with  which  to  compare  other  things,  and  find  them 
wanting.  And  if  one  absolutely  must  leave  Paradise, 
'tis  at  least  more  bearable  to  be  evicted  by  Eve — par- 
don me,  it  was  her  name,  you  know,  a  great  while 
before  it  was  yours — than  to  be  chased  out  of  it  by  the 
serpent.     There  was  no  serpent  in  my  Eden ! 

Eva  (with  a  little  cynicism) — Thirteen,  fourteen,  fif- 
teen, sixteen! 

Alfred — Ah,  you  are  right.  Of  course  he  was  there, 
glittering  with — orders  of  merit.  Also,  he  waltzed 
like  an  angel  of  light — you  told  me  so  that  evening  at 
the  Casino.  But  if  you  preferred  Count  von  Waldberg 
to  my  humble  self,  you  might  at  least  have  said  so 
frankly.  I  would  not  have  stood  in  the  way  of  your 
happiness ;  and  it  would  have  spared  me  some  examina- 
tions of  conscience. 

Eva  (reproachfully) — Seventeen,  eighteen. 

Alfred — You  were  so  good  as  to  say  that  you — liked 
me,  and  I  believed  it.  Now,  you  have  taught  me  to 
disbelieve ;  I  only  wish  that  I  could  doubt  the  sincerity 
with  which,  when  you  gave  back  my  ring,  you  told  me 
that  you  hated  me. 

Eva  (deprecatingly,  but  coldly) — Nineteen,  twenty. 

Alfred — Mrs.  Leclerc  is  looking  at  us.  Say  some- 
thing kind  to  me — for  her  sake ! 

Eva  (cheerfully) — Twenty-one,  twenty-two,  twenty- 


3o8     WHEN   ANGRY,    COUNT   A   HUNDRED 

three,  twenty-four,  twenty-five,  twenty-six,  twenty- 
seven,  twenty-eight! 

Alfred — A  thousand  thanks.  She  is  quite  satisfied 
that  we  are  enjoying  ourselves. 

Eva  (with  a  shade  of  coquetry) — Twenty-nine,  thirty? 

Alfred — Oh,  immensely — no — yet — that  is  to  say,  not 
precisely.  However,  I  mean  to  improve  my  oppor- 
tunity, such  as  it  is.  .  .  .  Are  you  not  glad  that 
we  are  to  have  Italian  opera  this  winter,  instead  of 
Wagner? 

Eva  (with  astonishment) — Thirty-one,  thirty-two, 
thirty-three ! 

Alfred — Major  Starr  was  listening  to  us  just  then. 
Now  he  is  talking  again.  The  usual  thing,  I  believe, 
is  to  say  that  because  you  have  disappointed  me  I  shall 
lose  faith  in  all  women.  It  won't  have  that  effect  with 
me,  I  fancy,  though  I  should  have  liked  to  believe  in 
you  too. 

Eva  (with  bitterness)  —  Thirty-four,  thirty-five, 
thirty-six. 

Alfred — I  think  that  neither  you  nor  I  can  ever  for- 
get those  evenings  on  the  river:  it  will  be  a  dainty 
aquarelle  in  your  mind ;  in  mine  the  scene  is  an  etch- 
ing, every  line  inalterable.  That  sort  of  thing  is  bitten 
in  with  aquafortis,  you  know.  .  .  .  On  the  whole, 
you  need  not  remember  that  occasion.  Miss  Rosewarne! 

Eva  (sadly) — Thirty-seven,  thirty-eight,  thirty-nine, 
forty,  forty-one. 

Alfred — And  in  the  morning,  as  I  waited  on  the  cliff 
for  you  to  appear,  I  understood  how  the  earth  waits  for 
the  dawn  to  illuminate  it,  to  give  it  new  life.  Well,  I 
have  had  my  day;  it  was  bright,  but  the  sunset  came 
too  soon. 


By  E.    CAVAZZA  309 

Eva  (dreamily) — Forty-two,   forty-three,  forty-four. 

Alfred — The  sea  sang  of  you,  the  waves  sparkled  for 
you,  all  the  sirens  had  given  their  magic  to  you,  and 
their  harping  must  have  been  like  the  sound  of  the  sea- 
wind  in  your  hair. 

Eva  (with  an  effort  at  mockery) — Forty-five,  forty- 
six! 

Alfred — Your  criticism  is  deserved.  My  expressions 
do  sound  rather  too  lyric  and  high-flown.     .     .     . 

Eva  (sarcastically) — Forty-seven,  forty-eight,  forty- 
nine,  fifty.     .     .     . 

Alfred — If  you  really  think  them  so  comic,  let  me  go 
on.  I  dreamed  of  you — don't  you  like  the  present  way 
of  arranging  the  flowers  low,  so  that  one  hasn't  to  peep 
this  side  and  that  of  a  mountain  of  roses? 

Eva  (with  enthusiasm) — Fifty-one,  fifty-two,  fifty- 
three,  fifty-four,  fifty-five,  fifty-six! 

Alfred — Thank  you  again ;  for  a  briefer  answer 
might  have  led  Major  Starr  to  suspect  that  my  conver- 
sation failed  to  interest  you.  As  I  was  saying,  I 
dreamed  of  you  and  of  you  only.     I  still  dream 

Eva  (hurriedly) — Fifty-seven,  fifty-eight,  fifty-nine, 
sixty,  sixty-one,  sixty-two,  sixty-three,  sixty-four,  sixty- 
five,  sixty-six,  sixty-seven,  sixty-eight 

Alfred — Don't  be  disturbed.  I  quite  understand  that 
dreams  are  illusions.     I  am  awake;  very  thoroughly. 

Eva  (softly)  —  Sixty-nine,  seventy,  seventy-one, 
seventy-two. 

Alfred — It  is  better  to  wake  than  to  dream ;  but  if 
one  has  no  more  pleasure  in  either — then  best  to  sleep 
soundly. 

Eva  (puzzled,  slightly  alarmed)  —  Seventy-three, 
seventy-four,  seventy-five?    .    .     , 


3IO    WHEN   ANGRY,    COUNT   A   HUNDRED 

Alfred — As  I  said,  I  expect  to  sail  in  a  few  days  for 
Europe ;  in  any  case,  one  of  the  firm  would  have  to  go 
there. 

Eva  (with  resignation) — Seventy-six. 

Alfred — I  have  tried  again  and  again  to  retrace  those 
parted  ways,  back  to  the  path  where,  for  a  little  while, 
we  walked  together.  A  dry  and  wearisome  road  it 
may  have  been  for  you.  For  me,  as  I  have  told  you, 
it  was  the  way  of  Paradise.  I  began  to  suspect  the 
presence  of  the  inconvenient  third  party  of  the  legend 
of  Eden  at  that  Casino  ball.  You  remember;  the 
evening  when  you  wore  a  gown  of  some  sort  of  cloth 
which  had  the  tint  of  a  blush-rose,  adorably  fitted, 
hanging  in  smooth,  heavy  folds,  trimmed  with — 
trimmed  with — well,  I  suppose  it  was  tape 

Eva  (with  horror) — Seventy-seven! 

Alfred — How  stupid  of  me!  Of  course  it  wasn't 
tape.  I  used  to  be  posted  on  the  difference  between 
tape  and  bombazine  and  lace  and  things  in  those  other 
days  when  you  were  so  good  as  to  explain  it  to  me. 
At  all  events,  that  was  a  delicious  gown. 

Eva  (with  conviction) — Seventy-eight,  seventy-nine. 

Alfred — You  told  me  to  come  early  to  the  Casino. 

.     .     Great  fun  I  was  to  have  that  evening!     You 

let  me  take  your  program  of  dances;   the  trail  of  the 

serpent — pardon  me,    I   should   say  the  autograph  of 

Count  von  Waldberg — was  over  it  all. 

Eva  (deprecatingly) — Eighty,  eighty-one,  eighty- 
two. 

Alfred — I  know  that.  It's  quite  true  that  I  had  a 
poor  little  lancers,  a  quadrille,  and  the  fag-end  of  a 
mazurka.  But  the  waltz — our  waltz,  the  "Garden  of 
Sleep" — you  danced  with  the  Count. 


By  E.    CAVAZZA  3" 

Eva  (protesting)— Eighty-three,  eighty-four,  eighty- 
five. 

Alfred — Of  course  he  asked  for  it.  But  you  have  a 
thousand  pretty  ways  of  saying  no.  You  could  have 
kept  that  waltz  for  me. 

Eva  (timidly) — Eighty-six,  eighty-seven. 

Alfred — Well,  let  that  pass.  I  suggested,  as  con- 
siderately as  I  knew  how,  that  you  were  giving  rather 
too  many  dances  to  Count  von  Waldberg.  You  replied 
that  those  numbers  were  at  your  disposal  when  he  took 
your  card,  and  you  chose  to  give  them  to  him. 

Eva  (poignantly) — Eighty-eight! 

Alfred — Reserved!  If  I  had  understood  that!  Now 
I  dare  not  even  hint  my  thanks  for  what — I  did  not 
have. 

Eva  (with  recovered  composure)  —  Eighty-nine, 
ninety. 

Alfred — Is  there  anything  more  cruel  than  the  sar- 
casm of  a  dance  when  one  is  imhappy?  .  .  .  And 
^vhat  do  you  think  of  this  imported  notion  of  a  Theatre 
Libre? 

Eva  (startled)  —  Ninety-one,  ninety-two,  ninety- 
three  ! 

Alfred — Pardon  the  abrupt  change  of  subject.  But 
Mrs.  Leclerc  had  a  very  curious  look  on  her  face. 

Eva  (acquiescent) — Ninety-four,  ninety-five. 

Alfred — If  Count  von  Waldberg  pleased  you,  there 
was  certainly  no  reason  that  you  should  not  like  him. 
He's  a  very  good  fellow,  I  believe,  and  he  dances 
remarkably  well.  As  my  rival,  he  was  ex  officio  hate- 
ful— not  upon  personal  grounds.  Moreover,  he  has 
gone  back  to  his  own  country,  and  rather  suddenly.  I 
like  that  about  him;  it's  a  case  where  the  absent  is  in 


312     WHEN   ANGRY,    COUNT   A   HUNDRED 

the  right.  Then,  too,  I'm  inclined  to  pity  Von  Wald- 
berg;  for  one  doesn't,  by  his  own  will,  lose  his  chances 
of  waltzing  with  Miss  Rosewarne.  You  must  have 
given  him  leave  of  absence.  I  begin  to  feel  for  the 
Count  as  a  brother  in  misfortune. 

Eva  (reprovingly) — Ninety-six,  ninety-seven. 

Alfred — I  accept  the  reproof.  I  have  no  right  to 
guess  at  what  may  have  taken  place  between  yourself 
and  Count  von  Waldberg.  It  was  impertinent,  but 
decidedly  agreeable,  that  surmise  of  mine. 

Eva  (with  increased  coldness) — Ninety-eight. 

Alfred — I'm  always  saying  the  wrong  thing.  .  .  . 
But  this  time  it  seems  to  me  I  must  speak — and  then 
forever  after  be  silent. 

Eva  (mockingly) — Ninety-nine! 

Alfred — That's  a  quotation  from — from — in  fact — 
something  that  I  was  interested,  a  while  ago,  to  coach 
myself  upon. 

Eva  (with  marked  indifference) — One  hundred. 

Alfred — You  have  reached  the  hundred.  And  you  are 
still  angry,  I'm  afraid.  Ah!  if  by  chance  it  seems  to 
you  that  you  have  said  anything  which  you  would  rather 
have  left  unsaid,  or  said  differently, — we  all  do  that 
sometimes,  you  know, — you  could  retract  it  by  count- 
ing that  same  hundred  backward,  down  to  nothing 
again.     Isn't  that  a  pretty  good  scheme? 

Eva  (assenting) — Ninety-nine. 

Alfred — I  think,  with  a  little  economy,  you  can  make 
that  double  back-action  hundred  last  until  Mrs.  Leclerc 
begins  to  "collect  eyes"  for  the  exit  of  the  women. 
You  can  be  epigrammatic,  staccato,  like  the  French 
novelists.  When  you  lisp  in  numbers,  they  needn't 
come  too  many  at  once.     I  know  your  intonations  so 


By  E.    CAVAZZA  313 

well  that  words  are  hardly  needed  to  convey— or  con- 
ceal— your  meaning. 

Eva — Ninety-eight. 

Alfred — Quite  so. 

Eva — Ninety-seven. 

Alfred — Perfectly. 

Eva — Ninety-six. 

Alfred — I'll  take  my  affidavit  to  that.  .  .  .  This 
is  capital.  Mrs.  Leclerc  is  sure  that  v/e  are  getting  on 
famously. 

Eva — Ninety-five,  ninety-four 

Alfred — Take  care;  don't  be  a  spendthrift  of  your 
numbers.  You  might — if  you  wouldn't  mind  doing  it 
— smile  at  me  now  and  then,  instead  of  speaking. 
Only  to  save  the  numerals,  of  course.  .  .  .  Oh, 
this  is  a  comedy  that  we  are  playing!       But  for  me  it 

is  also  a  tragedy But  just  now  it  seems  to 

me  that  my  whole  spirit  is  in  revolution. 

Eva — Ninety-three. 

Alfred — Very  much  like  **  '93,"  as  Victor  Hugo  has 

described  it. 

Eva — Ninety-two. 

Alfred — I  had  built  so  many  castles  in  air,  and  you 
were  chatelaine  of  them  all.  Everything  had  a  reason 
for  existence.  .  .  .  But  my  life  has  ceased  to 
be  logical ;  in  fact,  it  has  gone  all  to  pieces.  I  shall 
pick  up  the  pieces,  of  course, — I'm  not  a  whimpering 
boy, — and  glue  them,  screw  them,  clamp  them,  tie 
them  together,  anyhow,  provided  they  stick.  But  I 
don't  pretend  that  the  outfit  will  be  as  good  as  new,  or 
as  it  was  before  it  was  broken  up. 

Eva  (with  remorse) — Ninety-one,  ninety,  eighty- 
nine,  eighty-eight,  eighty-seven,  eighty-six. 


314     WHEN   ANGRY,    COUNT   A   HUNDRED 

Alfred — 'Twas  not  your  fault.  You  couldn't  help  it. 
I  did  not  deserve  you;  only  I  loved  you  with  all  my 
soul,  as — heaven  help  me!     I  love  you,  love  you  now! 

Eva  (in  extreme  agitation,  very  pale,  rattles  off  the 
numbers  down  to  sixteen,  and  stops  there  for  want  of 
breath). 

Alfred — Poor  beautiful  child,  do  not  be  afraid.  I 
will  not  offend  in  this  way  again.  I  only  meant  to  tell 
you  that  amid  the  ruins  of  my  fallen  castle  there  blos- 
soms an  imperishable  flower — my  affection  for  you. 
.  Now  everything  is  ended.  See,  Mrs.  Leclerc 
is  looking  around  the  table  to  rally  her  feminine  troop. 

Eva  (counting  desperately,  and  ending  with  the 
number  three). 

Alfred — And  so,  it  is  good-by — definitively.  Because 
when  we  meet  in  future,  if  ever,  it  will  be  as  mere 
acquaintances  who  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other 
except  the  commonplaces  of  society.     We,  who  were  to 

have  been  united,  must  henceforward  be (he  stops 

short,  surprised  by  an  emotion  that  chokes  his  voice  of 
a  man  of  the  world). 

Eva  (boldly  skipping  a  number) — One !  (She  reck- 
lessly drops  her  bouquet  as  she  rises  with  the  other 
women.) 

Alfred  (stoops  to  pick  up  her  bouquet,  kisses  the 
hand  of  Eva  under  the  table,  and  says  in  a  rapturous 
undertone) — One  forever! 


A    SPEECH    OF    PROSPERO.      From  "The  Tem- 
pest"    By  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

PROSPERO.     Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing 
lakes  and  groves; 
And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back — you  demi-puppets  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green  sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites ;  and  you  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid — 
Weak  masters  though  ye  be — I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azure'd  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt;  the  strong-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar :  graves  at  my  command 
Have  wak'd  their  sleepers,  op'd,  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art.     But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure;  and,  when  I  have  requir'd 
Some  heavenly  music — which  even  now  I  do, — 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff. 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth. 
And  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound 
I'll  drown  my  book. 


315 


OTHELLO'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  DUKE  OF  VEN- 
ICE AND  THE  SENATORS.  From  "Othello,  the 
Moor  of  Venice."     By  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

OTHELLO.     Most    potent,    grave,    and    reverend 
signiors. 
My  very  noble  and  approv'd  good  masters, 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true ;  true,  I  have  married  her : 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my  speech. 
And  little  blest  with  the  soft  phrase  of  peace : 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith. 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  us'd 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  ; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle. 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself.      Yet,   by  your  gracious  pa- 
tience, 
I  will  a  round,  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love ;  what  drugs,  what  charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, — 
For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal, — 
I  won  his  daughter. 

Her  father  lov'd  me,  oft  invited  me, 
Still  question 'd  me  the  story  of  my  life 
From  year  to  year, — the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it; 
Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances. 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field, 
Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach, 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe 

316 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  317 

And  sold  to  slavery,  of  my  redemption  thence, 

And  portance  in  my  travel's  history; 

Wherein  of  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle, 

Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose   heads   touch 

heaven. 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak, — such  was  the  process: 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     This  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline : 
But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence ; 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch. 
She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse :  which  I  observing, 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate. 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively.     I  did  consent. 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears. 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  suffer'd.     My  story  being  done. 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 
She  swore,  in  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  passing  strange, 
'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful; 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wish'd 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man ;  she  thank'd  me 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint  I  spake; 
She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd. 


MY  LAST  CHANCE.  From  "The  Dolly  Dialogues." 
Reprinted  with  the  permission  of  the  publishers, 
Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Company.  By  ANTHONY 
HOPE. 

"TVJOWmind,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary Musgrave,  impress- 
1\      ively,  "this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  take  any 

trouble   about   you.      She's  a  very   nice    girl,    quite 

pretty,  and  she'll  have  a  lot  of  money.     You  can  be 

very  pleasant  when  you  like " 

*'This  unsolicited  testimonial " 


"Which  isn't  often — and  if  you  don't  do  it  this  time 
I  wash  my  hands  of  you.     Why,  how  old  are  you?" 

"Hush,  Mrs.  Hilary." 

"You  must  be  nearly " 

"It's  false— false— false!" 

"Come  along,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary,  and  she  added, 
over  her  shoulder,  "she  has  a  slight  north-country 
accent. '  * 

"It  might  have  been  Scotch,"  said  I. 

"She  plays  the  piano  a  good  deal." 

"It  might  have  been  the  fiddle,"  said  I. 

"She's  very  fond  of  Browning." 

"It  might  have  been  Ibsen,"  said  I. 

Mrs.  Hilary,  seeing  that  I  was  determined  to  look  on 
the  bright  side,  smiled  graciously  on  me  and  intro- 
duced me  to  the  young  lady.  She  was  decidedly 
good-looking,  fresh  and  sincere  of  aspect,  with  large 
inquiring  eyes — eyes  which  I  felt  would  demand  a  little 
too  much  of  me  at  breakfast — but  then  a  large  tea-urn 
puts  that  all  right. 

"Miss  Sophia  Milton — Mr.  Carter,"  said  Mrs. 
Hilary,  and  left  us. 

Well,  we   tried   the   theatres  first;   but  as  she  had 

318 


By  ANTHONY   HOPE  319 

only  been  to  the  Lyceum  and  I  had  only  been  to  the 
Gaiety,  we  soon  got  to  the  end  of  that.  Then  we 
tried  Art :  she  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  Degas :  I 
evaded  the  question  by  criticising  a  drawing  of  a  horse 
in  last  week's  Punch — which  she  hadn't  seen.  Upon 
this  she  started  literature.  She  said  "Some  Qualms 
and  a  Shiver"  was  the  book  of  the  season.  I  put  my 
money  on  "The  Queen  of  the  Quorn. "  Dead  stop 
again!  And  I  saw  Mrs.  Hilary's  eye  upon  me:  there 
was  wrath  in  her  face.     Something  must  be  done. 

A  brilliant  idea  seized  me.  I  had  read  that  four- 
fifths  of  the  culture  of  England  were  Conservative.  I 
also  was  a  Conservative.  It  was  four  to  one  on !  I 
started  politics.  I  could  have  whooped  for  joy  when  I 
elicited  something  particularly  incisive  about  the 
ignorance  of  the  masses. 

"I  do  hope  you  agree  with  me,"  said  Miss  Milton. 
"The  more  one  reads  and  thinks,  the  more  one  sees 
how  fatally  false  a  theory  it  is  that  the  ignorant  masses 
— people  such  as  I  have  described — can  ever  rule  a 
great  Empire." 

"The  Empire  wants  gentlemen;  that's  what  it 
wants,"  said  I,  nodding  my  head,  and  glancing 
triumphantly  at  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"Men  and  women,"  said  she,  "who  are  acquainted 
with  the  best  that  has  been  said  and  thought  on  all 
important  subjects." 

At  the  time  I  believed  this  observation  to  be  orig- 
inal, but  I  have  since  been  told  that  it  was  borrowed. 
I  was  delighted  with  it. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  have  got  a  stake  in  the  country, 
you  know,  and  know  how  to  behave  'emselves  in  the 
House,  don't  you  know?" 


320  MY  LAST  CHANCE 

"What  we  have  to  do,"  pursued  Miss  Milton,  "is  to 
guide  the  voters.  These  poor  rustics  need  to  be 
informed " 

"Just  so,"  I  broke  in.     "They  have  to  be  told " 

"Of  the  real  nature  of  the  questions " 

"And  which  candidate  to  support." 

"Or  they  must  infallibly "  she  exclaimed. 

"Get  their  marching  orders,"  I  cried,  in  rapture.  It 
was  exactly  what  I  always  did  on  my  small  property. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  quite  mean  that,"  she  said  reproach- 
fully. 

"Oh,  well,  neither  did  I— quite,"  I  responded 
adroitly.     What  was  wrong  with  the  girl  now? 

"But  with  the  help  of  the  League "  she  went  on. 

"Do  you  belong?"  I  cried,  more  delighted  than  ever. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  she.  "I  think  it's  a  duty.  I 
worked  very  hard  at  the  last  election.  I  spent  days 
distributing  packages  of " 

Then  I  made,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  a  false  step.  I 
observed,  interrupting: 

"But  it's  ticklish  work  now,  eh?  Six  months'  'hard' 
wouldn't  be  pleasant,  would  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr. — er — Carter?"  she  asked. 

I  was  still  blind.  I  believe  I  winked,  and  I'm  sure 
I  whispered,  "Tea." 

Miss  Milton  drew  herself  up  very  straight. 

"I  do  not  bribe,"  she  said.  "What  I  distribute  is 
pamphlets." 

Now,  I  suppose  that  "pamphlets"  and  "blankets" 
don't  really  sound  much  alike,  but  I  was  agitated. 

"Quite  right,"  said  I.  "Poor  old  things!  They 
can't  afford  proper  fuel." 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 


i  t  - 


By  ANTHONY    HOPE  321 

'I  was  not  joking,"  she  said,  with  horrible  severity. 
'Neither  was  I,"  I  declared  in  humble  apology. 
"Didn't  you  say 'blankets'?" 

"Pamphlets." 

"Oh!" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  I  glanced  at  Mrs.  Hilary. 
Things  had  not  fallen  out  as  happily  as  they  might, 
but  I  did  not  mean  to  give  up  yet. 

"I  see  you're  right,"  I  said,  still  humbly.  "To 
descend  to  such  means  as  I  had  in  mind  is " 

"To  throw  away  our  true  weapons,"  said  she  ear- 
nestly.    (She  sat  down  again — good  sign.) 

"What  we  really  need "  I  began. 

"Is  a  reform  of  the  upper  classes,"  said  she.  "Let 
them  give  an  example  of  duty,  of  self-denial,  of 
frugality." 

I  was  not  to  be  caught  out  again, 

"Just  what  I  always  say,"  I  observed  impressively. 

"Let  them  put  away  their  horse-racing,  their  bet- 
ting, their  luxurious  living,  their " 

"You're  right,  Miss  Milton,"  said  1. 

"Let  them  set  an  example  of  morality." 

"They  should,"  I  assented. 

Miss  Milton  smiled. 

"I  thought  we  agreed  really,"  said  she. 

"I'm  sure  we  do,"  cried  I;  and  I  winked  with  my 
"off"  eye  at  Mrs.  Hilary  as  I  sat  down  beside  Miss 
Milton. 

"Now  I  heard  of  a  man  the  other  day,"  said  she, 
"who's  nearly  forty.  He's  got  an  estate  in  the  country. 
He  never  goes  there,  except  for  a  few  days'  shooting. 
He  lives  in  town.  He  spends  too  much.  He  passes 
an  absolutely  vacant  existence  in  a  round  of  empty 


322  MY    LAST   CHANCE 

gayety.  He  has  by  no  means  a  good  reputation.  He 
dangles  about,  wasting  his  time  and  his  money.  Is 
that  the  sort  of  example ?" 

"He's  a  traitor  to  his  class,"  said  I  warmly. 

"If  you  want  him,  you  must  look  on  a  race-course,  or 
at  a  tailor's,  or  in  some  fashionable  woman's  boudoir. 
And  his  estate  looks  after  itself.  He's  too  selfish  to 
marry,  too  idle  to  work,  too  silly  to  think." 

I  began  to  be  sorry  for  this  man,  in  spite  of  his 
peccadilloes. 

"I  wonder  if  I've  met  him,"  said  I.  "I'm  occasion- 
ally in  town,  when  I  can  get  time  to  run  up.  What's 
his  name?" 

"I  don't  think  I  heard — or  I've  forgotten.  But  he's 
got  a  place  next  to  a  friend  of  mine  in  the  country, 
and  she  told  me  all  about  him.  She's  exactly  the 
opposite  sort  of  person — or  she  wouldn't  be  my  friend. " 

"I  should  think  not.  Miss  Milton,"  said  I,  admir- 
ingly. 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to  meet  that  man,  and  tell  him 
what  I  think  of  him!"  said  she.  "Such  men  as  he  is 
do  more  harm  than  a  dozen  agitators.  So  contempt- 
ible, too!" 

"It's  revolting  to  think  of,"  said  I. 

"I'm  so  glad    you "   began  Miss  Milton,   quite 

confidentially;  I  pulled  my  chair  a  trifle  closer,  and 
cast  an  apparently  careless  glance  towards  Mrs. 
Hilary.     Suddenly  I  heard  a  voice  behind  me. 

"Eh,  what?  Upon  my  honor  it  is!  Why,  Carter, 
my  boy,  how  are  you?  Eh,  what?  Miss  Milton,  too, 
I  declare!  Well,  now,  what  a  pity  Annie  didn't 
come!" 

I  disagreed.     I  hate  Annie.     But  I  was  very  glad  to 


By  ANTHONY   HOPE  323 

see  my  friend  and  neighbor,  Robert  Dinnerly.  He's  a 
sensible  man — his  wife's  a  little  prig. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dinnerly,"  cried  Miss  Milton,  "how  funny 
that  you  should  come  just  now!  I  was  just  trying  to 
remember  the  name  of  a  man  Mrs,  Dinnerly  told  me 
about.  I  was  telling  Mr.  Carter  about  him.  You 
know  him." 

"Well,  Miss  Milton,  perhaps  I  do.     Describe  him." 

"I  don't  believe  Annie  ever  told  me  his  name,  but 
she  was  talking  about  him  at  our  house  yesterday." 

"But  I  wasn't  there.  Miss  Milton." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Milton,  "but  he's  got  the  next  place 
to  yours  in  the  country." 

I  positively  leapt  from  my  seat. 

"Why,  good  gracious.  Carter  himself,  you  mean!" 
cried  Dinnerly,  laughing.  "Well,  that  is  a  good  'un — 
ha-ha-ha!" 

She  turned  a  stony  glare  on  me. 

"Do  you  live  next  to  Mr,  Dinnerly  in  the  country?" 
she  asked. 

I  would  have  denied  it  if  Dinnerly  had  not  been 
there.     As  it  was  I  blew  my  nose. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Milton,  "what  has  become  of 
Aunt  Emily." 

"Miss  Milton,"  said  I,  "by  a  happy  chance  you  have 
enjoyed  a  luxury.  You  have  told  the  man  what  you 
think  of  him." 

"Yes,"  said  she;  "and  I  have  only  to  add  that  he  is 
also  a  hypocrite. ' ' 

Pleasant,  wasn't  it?  Yet  Mrs.  Hilary  says  it  was  my 
fault!     That's  a  woman  all  over! 


THE  LAST  SOLILOQUY  OF  FAUSTUS.  From 
•'Doctor  Faustus."  By  CHRISTOPHER  MAR- 
LOWE. 

AH,  Faustus, 
Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually! 
Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come ; 
Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day :  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day. 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul ! 
O  lente,  lente,  currite,  noctis  equi! 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 
The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damn'd! 
Oh,  I'll  leap  up  to  my  God! — Who  pulls  me  down? — 
See,  see,  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament! 
One  drop  would  save  my  soul,  half  a  drop!    ah,  my 

Christ!— 
Ah,  rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ! 
Yet  will  I  call  on  Him:  Oh,  spare  me,  Lucifer! — 
Where  is  it  now?  'tis  gone!  and  see,  where  God 
Stretcheth  out  his  arm,  and  bends  his  ireful  brows! 
Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come,  and  fall  on  me, 
And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  God! 
No,  no! 

Then  will  I  headlong  run  into  the  earth : 
Earth,  gape:  Oh,  no,  it  will  not  harbour  me  I 
You  stars  that  reign'd  at  my  nativity, 
Whose  influence  hath  allotted  death  and  hell, 
Now  draw  up  Faustus,  like  a  foggy  mist, 
Into  the  entrails  of  yon  labouring  cloud. 
That,  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air, 

324 


By  CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE  325 

My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths, 
So  that  my  soul  may  but  ascend  to  heaven ! 

(The  clock  strikes  the  half -hour.) 
Ah,  half  the  hour  is  past!   'twill  all  be  past  anon. 
O  God, 

If  Thou  wilt  not  have  mercy  on  my  soul, 
Yet  for  Christ's  sake,  whose  blood  hath  ransom'd  me, 
Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain; 
Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 
A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  sav'd! 
Oh,  no  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls! 
Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul? 
Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast? 
Ah,  Pythagoras'  metempsychosis,  were  that  true, 
This  soul  should  fly  from  me,  and  I  be  chang'd 
Unto  some  brutish  beast !  all  beasts  are  happy, 
For,  when  they  die. 

Their  souls  are  soon  dissolv'd  in  elements; 
But  mine  must  live  still  to  be  plagu'd  in  hell. 
Curs'd  be  the  parents  that  engender'd  me! 
No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer 
That  hath  depriv'd  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

(The  clock  strikes  twelve.) 
Oh,  it  strikes,  it  strikes!     Now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell ! 

(Thunder  and  lightning.) 
Oh,  soul,  be  chang'd  into  little  water-drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean,  ne'er  be  found! 

[Enter   Devils.] 
My  God,  my  God,  look  not  so  fierce  on  me! 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  a  while! 
Ugly  hell,  gape  not!  come  not,  Lucifer! 
I'll  burn  my  books! — Ah,  Mephistophilis! 

[Exeunt  Devils  with  Faustus. 


THE    CHARIOT    RACE.      From    "Electra."      The 
Tale  of  The  Attendant  of  Orestes.     By  SOPHOCLES. 

ORESTES  .  .  .  He  is  dead.  I  will  tell  all  as 
it  happened.  He  then  journeyed  forth  to  those 
great  games  which  Hellas  counts  her  pride,  to  join  the 
Delphic  contests;  and  he  heard  the  herald's  voice, 
with  loud  and  clear  command,  proclaim,  as  coming 
first,  the  chariot  race :  and  so  he  entered  radiant,  every 
eye  admiring  as  he  passed.  And  in  the  race  he 
equalled  all  the  promise  of  his  form  in  those  his 
rounds,  and  so  with  noblest  prize  of  conquest  left  the 
ground.  And,  summing  up  in  fewest  words  what 
many  scarce  could  tell,  I  know  of  none  in  strength  and 
act  like  him ;  but  one  thing  know,  for  having  won  the 
prize  in  all  the  five-fold  forms  of  race  which  they,  the 
umpires,  had  proclaimed  for  those  that  ran  the 
ground's  whole  length  and  back,  he  then  was  hailed, 
proclaimed  an  Argive,  and  his  name  Orestes,  his  son 
who  once  led  Hellas'  glorious  host,  the  mighty  Aga- 
memnon. So  far  well.  But  when  a  God  will  injure, 
none  can  'scape,  strong  though  he  be.  For  lo !  another 
day,  when,  as  the  sun  was  rising,  came  the  race  swift- 
footed,  of  the  chariot  and  the  horse,  he  entered  there, 
with  many  charioteers;  one  an  Achaean,  one  from 
Sparta,  two  from  Libya,  who  with  four-horsed  chariots 
came,  and  he  with  these,  with  swift  Thessalian  mares, 
came  as  the  fifth ;  a  sixth  with  bright  bay  colts  came 
from  ^tolia ;  and  the  seventh  was  born  in  far  Mag- 
nesia; and  the  eighth,  by  race  an  ^nian,  with  v/hite 
horses,  and  the  ninth  from  Athens  came,  the  city  built 
of  God;  last,  a  Boeotian,  tenth  in  order,  came,  and 
made  the  list  complete.  And  so  they  stood — when  the 
appointed  umpires  fixed  by  lot,  and  placed  the  cars  in 

326 


By  SOPHOCLES  327 

order;    and  with  sound  of  brazen  trump  they  started. 
Cheering  all  their  steeds  at  once,  they  shook  the  reins, 
and  then  the  course  was  filled  with  all  the  clash  and 
din  of  rattling  chariots,  and  the  dust  rose  high;  and  all 
commingled,   sparing  not  the  goad,   that  each  might 
pass  his  neighbour's  axle-trees,  and  horses'  hot,  hard 
breathings;    for  their  backs  and  chariot-wheels  were 
white  with  foam,  and  still  the  breath  of  horses  smote 
them ;    and  he,  come  just  where  the  last  stone  marks 
the  course's  goal,  turning  the  comer  sharp,  and,  letting 
go  the  right  hand  trace-horse,  pulled  the  nearer  in ;  and 
so  at  first  the  chariots  keep  their  course ;  but  then  the 
unbroken  colts  the  -^nian  owned  rush  at  full  speed, 
and,  turning  headlong  back,  just  as  they  closed  their 
sixth  round  or  their  seventh,  dash  their  heads  right 
against   the  chariot  wheels  of  those  who  came  from 
Barke.     And  from  thence,  from  that  one  shock,  each 
on  the  other  crashed,  they  fell  o'ertumed,  and  Crissa's 
spacious  plain  was  filled  with  wreck  of  chariots.     Then 
the  man  from  Athens,  skilled  and  wily  charioteer,  see- 
ing the  mischief,  turns  his  steed  aside,  at  anchor  rides, 
and  leaves  the  whirling  surge  of  man  and  horse  thus 
raging.     Last  of  all,  keeping  his  steeds  back,  waiting 
for  the  end,  Orestes  came.     And  when  he  sees  him 
left,  his  only  rival,  then,  with  shaken  rein,  urging  his 
colts,  he  follows,  and  they  twain  drove  onward,   both 
together,  by  a  head,  now  this,  now  that,  their  chariots 
gaining  ground;    and   all  the  other  rounds  in  safety 
passed.     Upright  in  upright  chariot  still  he  stood,  ill- 
starred  one ;  then  the  left  rein  letting  loose  just  as  his 
horse  was  turning,  unawares  he  strikes  the  furthest 
pillar,  breaks  the  spokes  right  at  his  axle's  centre,  and 
slips  down  from  out  his  chariot,  and  is  dragged  along, 


328  The  CHARIOT   RACE 

with  reins  dissevered.  And,  when  thus  he  fell,  his 
colts  tore  headlong  to  the  ground's  mid-space:  and 
when  the  host  beheld  him  fallen  thus  from  off  the 
chariot,  they  bewailed  him  sore,  so  young,  so  noble,  so 
unfortunate,  now  hurled  upon  the  ground,  and  now 
his  limbs  to  heaven  exposing.  Then  the  charioteers  full 
hardly  keeping  back  the  rush  of  steeds,  freed  the  poor 
corpse  so  bloody,  that  not  one  of  all  his  friends  would 
know  him,  and  his  body  they  burnt  upon  the  pyre; 
and  now  they  bear,  the  chosen  of  the  Phokians  that 
have  come,  in  a  poor  urn  of  bronze,  a  mighty  form 
reduced  to  these  sad  ashes,  that  for  him  may  be  a  tomb 
within  his  fatherland.  Such  is  my  tale,  full  sad,  I 
trow,  to  hear,  but  unto  those  who  saw  it  as  we  saw,  the 
greatest  of  all  evils  I  have  known. 


SPEECH  OF  THE  GRAND  RABBI,  MOSES- 
BEN-HABIB,  TO  FERDINAND  AND  ISA- 
BELLA. From  "Torquemada."  By  VICTOR 
HUGO. 

THE  Rabbi  (on  his  knees)— 
Your  highness  of  Castile, 
Of  Aragon,  our  sovereign  King  and  Queen ! 
Your  trembling  subjects  are  in  sore  distress, 
And,  praying  first  to  God,  we  come  to  you. 
With  naked  feet  and  rope  about  our  necks, 
And  bring  our  groans  and  tears  to  you,  O  Kings! 
For  we  are  lying  in  death's  very  shadow, 
A  number  of  us  are  about  to  be 
Flung  on  the  fagots,  and  for  all  the  rest, 
Old  men  and  women,  exile  is  decreed. 
Your  edicts.  King  and  Queen,  o'erwhelm  us  all. 
We  weep,  our  fathers  shudder  in  their  graves. — 
You  cause  the  mournful  sepulchres  to  tremble. 
Be  merciful.     Our  hearts  are  meek  and  true. 
Shut  up  within  our  little  homes,  we  live 
Alone  and  humble.     All  our  laws  are  plain, — 
So  very  simple  that  a  little  child 
Might  set  them  down  in  writing.     Never  Jew 
Is  seen  to  sing  or  laugh.     We  pay  the  tribute ; 
We  never  ask  how  large  the  sum  may  be. 
We're  trod  upon  while  lying  on  the  ground; 
We're  like  the  garment  of  a  murdered  man. 
To  God  be  glory !     But  must  Israel 
Defenceless,  driving  ox  and  ass  and  dog 
Before  him,  flee,  dispersed  in  every  sense, 
With  new-born  suckling  babes  and  children  weaned? 
Must  we  ne'er  be  a  people,  wanderers  ever? 
O  King  and  Queen,  do  not  let  us  be  chased 

329 


330  SPEECH  of  the  GRAND    RABBI 

With  goad  of  pike,  and  God  for  you  shall  open 

Celestial  gates.     Have  mercy  on  us.     We 

Are  dashed  to  earth.     Shall  we  no  longer  see 

Our  trees  and  fields  of  corn?     Shall  mothers  have 

No  longer  milk  within  their  breasts?     The  beasts 

Are  in  the  forests,  happy  with  their  mates; 

The  nests  sleep  calmly,  couched  beneath  the  leaves; 

The  hind  brings  up  her  little  ones  in  peace. 

Ah !  let  us  also  live  within  our  caves, 

Beneath  our  squalid  roofs.     For  there  we  dwell 

Almost  like  slaves  within  a  convict  pen, 

But  near  our  fathers'  graves.     In  mercy  deign 

To  suffer  us  to  rest  beneath  your  feet 

Which  we  have  bathed  with  tears !     Alas !  the  woe 

Of  wandering  along  the  distant  ways! 

Then  let  us  drink  the  waters  of  our  streams, 

And  live  upon  our  fields,  and  prosperous  days 

Shall  wait  upon  your  steps.     Alas !  we  wring 

Our  hands  in  desperation.     Spare  us,  Kings, 

The  agony  of  exile,  and  the  dole 

Of  stern,  eternal,  endless  loneliness! 

Grant  us  our  country,  grant  our  native  skies ! 

The  bread  we  eat  with  tears  is  bitter  bread. 

Be  not  the  wind,  though  we  be  but  the  dust. 

(Pointing  to  the  gold  on  the  table.) 
Behold  our  ransom.     Deign  to  take  it.  Kings, 
And,  oh!  protect  us.     Look  on  our  despair. 
Be  angels  o'er  us,  but  not  angels  dark, 
But  angels  good  and  mild.     The  shadow  cast 
By  gloomy  wings  is  not  the  same,  O  Kings, 
As  that  the  white  wing  leaves.     Recall  your  ban. 
We  beg  it  in  the  name  of  those  great  kings, 
Your  sacred  ancestors,  the  lion-hearted, 


By  VICTOR   HUGO  331 

And  by  the  tombs  of  sovereigns  august, 

Who  shone  serene  in  wisdom's  light.     We  place 

Our  hearts,  O  rulers  of  the  human  race. 

Our  prayers,  our  sorrows  in  the  little  hands 

Of  Joan,  the  Infanta,  innocent 

And  like  imto  the  wildwood  strawberr}'- 

Where  lights  the  bee.     O  King,  O  Queen,  have  mercy! 


AUNT  HITTY  TARBOX.  From  "Timothy's 
Quest."  Copyright,  1890,  by  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 
Reprinted  with  permission.  By  KATE  DOUGLAS 
WIGGIN. 

AUNT  HITTY,  otherwise  Mrs.  Silas  Tarbox,  was 
as  cheery  and  loquacious  a  person  as  you  could 
find  in  a  Sabbath  day's  journey.  .  .  .  She  was  in 
a  cheerful  mood  as  she  reflected  on  her  day's  achieve- 
ments at  Mrs.  Cummins'.  Out  of  Dr.  Jonathan  Cum- 
mins' old  cape  coat  she  had  carved  a  pair  of  brief 
trousers  and  a  vest  for  Timothy;  out  of  Mrs.  Jonathan 
Cummins'  waterproof  a  serviceable  jacket;  and  out  of 
Deacon  Abijah  Cummins'  linen  duster  an  additional 
coat  and  vest  for  warm  days.  The  owners  of  these 
garments  had  been  dead  many  years,  but  nothing  was 
ever  thrown  away  (and,  for  that  matter,  very  little 
given  away)  at  Mrs.  Cummins'. 

"I  hope  I  shall  relish  my  vittles  to-night,"  said  Aunt 
Hitty,  as  she  poured  her  tea  into  her  saucer,  and  set 
the  cup  in  her  little  blue  "cup-plate";  "but  I've  had 
the  neuralgy  so  in  my  face  that  it's  be'n  more'n  ten 
days  sence  I've  be'n  able  to  carry  a  knife  to  my  mouth. 
.  .  .  Your  meat  vittles  is  always  so  tasty,  Miss 
Cummins.  I  was  sayin'  to  Mis'  Sawyer  last  week  I 
think  she  lets  her  beef  hang  too  long.  It's  dretful 
tender,  but  I  don't  b'lieve  it's  hullsome.  For  my  part, 
as  I've  many  a  time  said  to  Si,  I  like  meat  with  some 
chaw  to  it.  .  .  .  Mis'  Sawyer  don't  put  half 
enough  vittles  on  her  table.  She  thinks  it  scares  folks; 
it  don't  me  a  mite, — it  makes  me's  hungry  as  a  wolf. 
When  I  set  a  table  for  comp'ny,  I  pile  on  a  hull  lot,  'n' 
I  find  it  kind  o'  discourages  'em.  .  .  .  Mis'  South- 
wick's  hevin'  a  reg'lar  brash  o'  house-cleanin'.     She's 

332 


By  KATE   DOUGLAS   WIGGIN  2>3i 

too  p'ison  neat  for  any  earthly  use,  that  woman  is. 
She's  fixed  clam-shell  borders  roun'  all  her  garding 
beds,  an'  got  enough  left  for  a  pile  in  one  corner, 
where  she's  goin'  to  set  her  oleander  kag.  Then  she's 
bought  a  haircloth  chair  and  got  a  new  three-ply  carpet 
in  her  parlor,  'n'  put  the  old  one  in  the  spare-room  'n' 
the  back-entry.  Her  daughter's  down  here  from  New 
Haven.  She's  married  into  one  of  the  first  families  o' 
Connecticut,  Lobelia  has,  'n'  she  puts  on  a  good  many 
airs.  She's  rigged  out  her  mother's  parlor  with  lace 
curtains  'n'  one  thing  'n'  'other,  'n'  wants  it  called  the 
drawin'-room.  Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  such  foolishness? 
'Drawin'-room!'  's'  I  to  Si;  'what's  it  goin'  to  draw? 
Nothin'  but  flies,  I  guess  likely!'  .  .  .  Mis'  Pen- 
nell's  got  a  new  girl  to  help  round  the  house, — one  o' 
them  pindlin'  light-complected  Smith  girls,  from  the 
Swamp, — look's  if  they  was  nussed  on  bonny-clabber. 
She's  so  hombly  I  sh'd  think  'twould  make  her 
back  ache  to  carry  her  head  round.  She  ain't 
very  smart,  neither.  Her  mother  sent  word  she'd 
pick  up  'n'  do  better  when  she  got  her  growth. 
That  made  Mis'  Pennell  hoppin'  mad.  She  said  she 
didn't  cal'late  to  pay  a  girl  three  shillin's  a  week 
for  growin'.  Mis'  Pennell' s  be'n  feelin'  consid'able 
slim,  or  she  wouldn't  'a'  hired  help;  it's  just  like 
puUin'  teeth  for  Deacon  Pennell  to  pay  out  money 
for  anything  like  that.  He  watches  everj^  mouthful 
the  girl  puts  into  her  mouth,  'n'  it's  made  him  'bout 
down  sick  to  see  her  fleshin'  up  on  his  vittles.  .  .  . 
They  say  he  has  her  put  the  mornin'  coffee-groun's  to 
dry  on  the  winder-sill,  'n'  then  has  'em  scalt  over  for 
dinner;  but  there!  I  don't  know's  there's  a  mite  o' 
truth  in  it,  so  I  won't  repeat  it.     They  went  to  him  to 


334  AUNT    HITTY   TARBOX 

git  a  subscription  for  the  new  hearse  the  other  day. 
Land  sakes!  we  need  one  bad  enough.     I  thought  for 
sure,  at  the  last  funeral  v/e  had,  that  they'd  never  git 
Mis'  Strout  to  the  graveyard  safe  and  sound.     I  kep' 
a-thinkin'  all  the  way  how  she'd  'a'  took  on,  if  she'd 
be'n  alive.     She  was    the  most  timersome  woman   't 
ever  was.     She  was  a  Thomson,  'n'  all  the  Thomsons 
was  scairt  at  their   own  shadders.      Ivory  Strout  rid 
right  behind  the  hearse,  'n'  he  says  his  heart  was  in  his 
mouth  the  hull  durin'   time  for  fear  't  would  break 
down.     He  didn't  git  much  comfort  out  the  occasion,  I 
guess!     Wa'n't  he  mad  he  hed  to  ride  in  the  same 
buggy  with  his  mother-in-law !     The  minister  planned 
it  all  out,  'n'  wrote  down  the  order  o'  the  mourners,  'n' 
passeled   him   out    with   old   Mis'    Thomson.       I   was 
stan'in'  close  by,  'n'   I  heard  him  say  he  s'posed  he 
could  go  that  way  if  he  must,  but  'twould  spile  the  hull 
blamed  thing  for  him!     .     .     .     Well,  as  I  was  sayin', 
the  Seleckmen  went  to  Deacon  Pennell  to  get  a  con- 
tribution towards  buyin'  the  new  hearse;  an'  do  you 
know,  he  wouldn't  give  'em  a  dollar?     He  told  'em  he 
gave  five  dollars  towards  the  other  one,  twenty  years 
ago,  'n'  hadn't  never  got  a  cent's  worth  o'  use  out  of  it. 
That's  Deacon  Pennell  all  over!     As  Si  says,   if  the 
grace  o'  God  wa'n't  given  to  all  of  us  without  money 
'n'  without   price,    you   wouldn't   never    hev   ketched 
Deacon  Pennell  experiencin'  religion!     It's  got  to  be  a 
free  gospel  'twould  convict  him  o'   sin,  that's  certain! 
I  guess  I've  done  as  much  work  as  I  can  do  to-day,  so 
I  bid  you  good-evenin'." 


THE  DEATH  OF  RODRIGUEZ.  From  "Cuba  in 
War  Time."  Copyright,  1898,  by  Robert  Howard 
Russell.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By  RICHARD 
HARDING  DAVIS. 

ADOLFO  RODRIGUEZ  was  the  only  son  of  a 
Cuban  farmer,  who  lives  nine  miles  outside  of 
Santa  Clara,  beyond  the  hills  that  surround  that  city  to 
the  north. 

When  the  revolution  broke  out  young  Rodriguez 
joined  the  insurgents,  leaving  his  father  and  mother 
and  two  sisters  at  the  farm.  He  was  taken,  in  Decem- 
ber of  1896,  by  a  force  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  the  corps 
d'dlite  of  the  Spanish  army,  and  defended  himself 
when  they  tried  to  capture  him,  wounding  three  of 
them  with  his  machete. 

He  was  tried  by  a  military  court  for  bearing  arms 
against  the  government,  and  sentenced  to  be  shot  by  a 
fusillade  some  morning,  before  sunrise.     .     . 

His  execution  took  place  the  morning  of  the  19th  of 
January,  at  a  place  a  half-mile  distant  from  the  city,  on 
the  great  plain  that  stretches  from  the  forts  out  to  the 
hills,  beyond  which  Rodriguez  had  lived  for  nineteen 
years.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  twenty  years 
old.     .     .     . 

There  had  been  a  full  moon  the  night  preceding  the 
execution,  and  when  the  squad  of  soldiers  marched  out 
from  town  it  was  still  shining  brightly  through  the 
mists,  although  it  was  past  five  o'clock.  ...  A 
line  of  tiny  camp  fires  that  the  sentries  had  built  dur- 
ing the  night  stretched  between  the  forts  at  regular 
intervals  and  burned  brightly. 

But  as  the  light  grew  stronger,  and  the  moonlight 
faded,  these  were  stamped  out,  and  when  the  soldiers 

335 


336  The  DEATH  of  RODRIGUEZ 

came  in  force  the  moon  was  a  white  ball  in  the  sky, 
without  radiance,  the  fires  had  sunk  to  ashes,  and  the 
sun  had  not  yet  risen. 

So,  even  when  the  men  were  formed  into  three  sides 
of  a  hollow  square,  they  were  scarcely  able  to  distin- 
guish one  another  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  morning. 

There  were  about  three  hundred  soldiers  in  the 
formation.  They  belonged  to  the  Volunteers,  and  they 
deployed  upon  the  plain  with  their  band  in  front,  play- 
ing a  jaunty  quickstep,  while  their  officers  galloped 
from  one  side  to  the  other  through  the  grass,  seeking 
out  a  suitable  place  for  the  execution,  while  the  band 
outside  the  line  still  played  merrily.     .     .     . 

As  the  light  increased  a  mass  of  people  came  hurry- 
ing from  the  town  with  two  black  figures  leading  them, 
and  the  soldiers  drew  up  at  attention,  and  part  of  the 
double  line  fell  back  and  left  an  opening  in  the  square. 

With  us  a  condemned  man  walks  only  the  short 
distance  from  his  cell  to  the  scaffold  or  the  electric 
chair,  shielded  from  sight  by  the  prison  walls;  and  it 
often  occurs  even  then  that  the  short  journey  is  too 
much  for  his  strength  and  courage. 

But  the  merciful  Spaniards  on  this  morning  made 
the  prisoner  walk  for  over  a  half-mile  across  the 
broken  surface  of  the  fields.  I  expected  to  find  the 
man,  no  matter  what  his  strength  at  other  times  might 
be,  stumbling  and  faltering  on  this  cruel  journey,  but 
as  he  came  nearer  I  saw  that  he  led  all  the  others,  that 
the  priests  on  either  side  of  him  were  taking  two  steps 
to  his  one,  and  that  they  were  tripping  on  their  gowns 
and  stumbling  over  the  hollows,  in  their  efforts  to  keep 
pace  with  him  as  he  walked,  erect  and  soldierly,  at  a 
quick  step  in  advance  of  them. 


By  RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS         337 

He  had  a  handsome,  gentle  face  of  the  peasant  type, 
a  light,  pointed  beard,  great  wistful  eyes  and  a  mass  of 
curly  black  hair.  He  was  shockingly  young  for  such  a 
sacrifice,  and  looked  more  like  a  Neapolitan  than  a 
Cuban.  .  .  .  He  wore  a  new  scapula  around  his 
neck,  hanging  outside  his  linen  blouse. 

It  seems  a  petty  thing  to  have  been  pleased  with  at 
such  a  time,  but  I  confess  to  have  felt  a  thrill  of  satis- 
faction when  I  saw,  as  the  Cuban  passed  me,  that  he 
held  a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  not  arrogantly  nor 
with  bravado,  but  with  the  nonchalance  of  a  man  who 
meets  his  punishment  fearlessly,  and  who  will  let  his 
enemies  see  that  they  can  kill  but  can  not  frighten  him. 

It  was  very  quickly  finished,  with  rough,  and  but  for 
one  frightful  blunder,  with  merciful  swiftness.  The 
crowd  fell  back  when  it  came  to  the  square,  and  the 
condemned  man,  the  priests  and  the  firing  squad  of  six 
young  volunteers  passed  in  and  the  line  closed  behind 
them. 

The  ofificer  who  had  held  the  cord  that  bound  the 
Cuban's  arms  behind  him  and  passed  across  his  breast, 
let  it  fall  on  the  grass  and  drew  his  sword,  and  Rodri- 
guez dropped  his  cigarette  from  his  lips  and  bent  and 
kissed  the  cross  which  the  priest  held  up  before  him. 

The  Cuban  walked  to  where  the  officer  directed  him 
to  stand,  and  turned  his  back  to  the  square  and  faced 
the  hills  and  the  road  across  them  which  led  to  his 
father's  farm. 

As  the  officer  gave  the  first  command  he  straightened 
himself  as  far  as  the  cords  would  allow,  and  held  up  his 
head  and  fixed  his  eyes  immovably  on  the  morning 
light  which  had  just  begun  to  show  above  the  hills. 

He  made  a  picture  of  such  pathetic  helplessness,  but 


338  The  DEATH  of  RODRIGUEZ 

of  such  courage  and  dignity,  that  he  reminded  me  on 
the  instant  of  that  statue  of  Nathan  Hale,  which  stands 
in  the  City  Hall  Park,  above  the  roar  of  Broadway,  and 
teaches  a  lesson  daily  to  the  hurrying  crowds  of  money- 
makers who  pass  beneath.     .     .     . 

The  officer  had  given  the  order,  the  men  had  raised 
their  pieces,  and  the  condemned  man  had  heard  the 
clicks  of  the  triggers  as  they  were  pulled  back,  and  he 
had  not  moved.  And  then  happened  one  of  the  most 
cruelly  refined,  though  unintentional,  acts  of  torture 
that  one  can  very  well  imagine.  As  the  officer  slowly 
raised  his  sword,  preparatory  to  giving  the  signal,  one 
of  the  mounted  officers  rode  up  to  him  and  pointed  out 
silently  what  I  had  already  observed  with  some  satis- 
faction, that  the  firing  squad  were  so  placed  that  when 
they  fired  they  would  shoot  several  of  the  soldiers 
stationed  on  the  extreme  end  of  the  square. 

Their  captain  motioned  his  men  to  lower  their  pieces, 
and  then  walked  across  the  grass  and  laid  his  hand  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  waiting  prisoner. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  what  that  shock  must  have 
been.  The  man  had  steeled  himself  to  receive  a 
volley  of  bullets  in  his  back.  He  believed  that  in  the 
next  instant  he  would  be  in  another  world;  he  had 
heard  the  command  given,  had  heard  the  click  of  the 
Mausers  as  the  locks  caught — and  then,  at  that  supreme 
moment,  a  human  hand  had  been  laid  upon  his  shoulder 
and  a  voice  spoke  in  his  ear. 

You  would  expect  that  any  man  who  had  been 
snatched  back  to  life  in  such  a  fashion  would  start  and 
tremble  at  the  reprieve,  or  would  break  down  alto- 
gether, but  this  bdy  turned  his  head  steadily,  and  fol- 
lowed with  his  eyes  the  direction  of  the  officer's  sword, 


By  RICHARD    HARDING   DAVIS  339 

then  nodded  his  head  gravely,  and,  with  his  shoulders 
squared,  took  up  a  new  position,  straightened  his  back 
again,  and  once  more  held  himself  erect. 

As  an  exhibition  of  self-control  this  should  surely 
rank  above  feats  of  heroism  performed  in  battle, 
where  there  are  thousands  of  comrades  to  give  inspira- 
tion. This  man  was  alone,  in  the  sight  of  the  hills  he 
knew,  with  only  enemies  about  him,  with  no  source  to 
draw  on  for  strength  but  that  which  lay  within  himself. 

The  officer  of  the  firing  squad,  mortified  by  his 
blunder,  hastily  whipped  up  his  sword,  the  men  once 
more  leveled  their  rifles,  the  sword  rose,  dropped,  and 
the  men  fired.  At  the  report  the  Cuban's  head  snapped 
back  almost  between  his  shoulders,  but  his  body  fell 
slowly,  as  though  some  one  had  pushed  him  gently 
forward  from  behind  and  he  had  stumbled. 

He  sank  on  his  side  in  the  wet  grass  without  a 
struggle  or  sound,  and  did  not  move  again.     .     . 

At  that  moment  the  sun,  which  had  shown  some 
promise  of  its  coming  in  the  glow  above  the  hills,  shot 
up  suddenly  from  behind  them  in  all  the  splendor  of 
the  tropics,  a  fierce,  red  disc  of  heat,  and  filled  the  air 
with  warmth  and  light. 

The  bayonets  of  the  retreating  column  flashed  in  it, 
and  at  the  sight  of  it  a  rooster  in  a  farmyard  near  by 
crowed  vigorously  and  a  dozen  bugles  answered  the 
challenge  with  the  brisk,  cheery  notes  of  the  reveille, 
and  from  all  parts  of  the  city  the  church  bells  jangled 
out  the  call  for  early  mass,  and  the  whole  world  of 
Santa  Clara  seemed  to  stir  and  stretch  itself  and  to 
wake  to  welcome  the  day  just  begun. 

But  as  I  fell  in  at  the  rear  of  the  procession  and 
looked  back  the  figure  of  the  young  Cuban,  who  was  no 


340  The  DEATH  of  RODRIGUEZ 

longer  a  part  of  the  world  of  Santa  Clara,  was  asleep  in 
the  wet  grass,  with  his  motionless  arms  still  tightly- 
bound  behind  him,  with  the  scapula  twisted  awry 
across  his  face  and  the  blood  from  his  breast  sinking 
into  the  soil  he  had  tried  to  free. 


"DAGGER  SOLILOQUY."     From  "Macbeth."     By 
WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

"11  TACBETH.     Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before 

The  handle  toward  my  hand? — Come,  let  me  clutch  thee. 

I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 

Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 

To  feeling  as  to  sight?  or  art  thou  but 

A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 

Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain? 

I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 

As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshal!' St  me  the  way  that  I  was  going; 

And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. — 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 

And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood, 

Which  was  not  so  before. — There's  no  such  thing: 

It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes. — Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 

The  curtain 'd  sleep;  witchcraft  celebrates 

Pale  Hecate's  oflEerings,  and  wither'd  murder, 

Alarum 'd  by  his  sentinel  the  wolf, 

Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost. — Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth. 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time. 

Which  now  suits  with  it. — Whiles  I  threat  he  lives: 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cool  breath  gives. 

[A  bell  rings. 
341 


342  "DAGGER   SOLILOQUY" 

I  go,  and  it  is  done;  the  bell  invites  me. — 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan,  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell. 


THE  FORUM  SCENE.     From  "Julius  Csesar."     By 
WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

Scene.     The  Forum. 
Enter  Brutus  and  Cassius,  and  a  throng  of  Citizens. 

CITIZENS.      We    will    be    satisfied;     let    us    be 
satisfied. 

Brutus.      Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience, 
friends. — 
Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street, 

And  part  the  numbers. 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  'em  stay  here; 
Those  that  will  follow  Cassius,  go  with  him ; 
And  public  reasons  shall  be  rendered 
Of  Cajsar's  death. 

First  Citizen.     I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 

Second  Citizen.     I  will  hear  Cassius,  and  compare 
their  reasons. 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

[Exit  Cassius,  with  some  of  the  Citizens.     Brutus  goes 

into  the  pulpit.] 

Third    Citizen.      The    noble    Brutus    is    ascended. 
Silence! 

Brutus.  Be  patient  till  the  last. 
Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers!  hear  me  for  my 
cause,  and  be  silent,  that  you  may  hear;  believe  me  for 
mine  honour,  and  have  respect  to  mine  honour,  that 
you  may  believe;  censure  me  in  your  wisdom,  and 
awake  your  senses,  that  you  may  the  better  judge.  If 
there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of 
Caesar's,  to  him  I  say  that  Brutus'  love  to  Caesar  was 
no  less  than  his.  If  then  that  friend  demand  why 
Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my  answer. — Not 

343 


344  The  FORUM   SCENE 

that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  loved  Rome  more. 
Had  you  rather  Caesar  were  living,  and  die  all  slaves, 
than  that  Caesar  were  dead,  to  live  all  freemen?  As 
Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep  for  him ;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I 
rejoice  at  it ;  as  he  was  valiant,  I  honour  him ;  but  as  he 
was  ambitious,  I  slew  him.  There  is  tears  for  his  love, 
joy  for  his  fortune,  honour  for  his  valour,  and  death  for 
his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base  that  would  be  a  bond- 
man? If  any,  speak,  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is 
here  so  rude  that  would  not  be  a  Roman?  If  any, 
speak,  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  vile 
that  will  not  love  his  country?  If  any,  speak,  for  him 
have  I  offended.     I  pause  for  a  reply. 

All.     None,  Brutus,  none. 

Brutus.  Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have  done 
no  more  to  Caesar  than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The 
question  of  his  death  is  enrolled  in  the  Capitol ;  his 
glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy,  nor  his 
offences  enforced,  for  which  he  suffered  death. 

[Enter  Antony  and  others,  with  Caesar's  body.] 

Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony,  who, 
though  he  had  no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  receive  the 
benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  in  the  commonwealth ;  as 
v/hich  of  you  shall  not?  With  this  I  depart, — that,  as 
I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have  the 
same  dagger  for  myself,  when  it  shall  please  my 
country  to  need  my  death. 

All.     Live,  Brutus,  live!  live! 

First  Citizen.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto 
his  house. 

Second  Citizen.  Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ances- 
tors. 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  345 

Third  Citizen.     Let  him  be  Caesar. 

Fourth  Citizen.  Caesar's  better  parts 

Shall  now  be  crown 'd  in  Brutus. 

First  Citizen.      We'll  bring  him  to  his  house  with 
shouts  and  clamours. 

Brutus.     My  countrymen, — 

Second  Citizen.  Peace !  silence !     Brutus  speaks. 

First  Citizen.     Peace,  ho! 

Brutus.     Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone, 
And  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony ; 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glories,  which  Mark  Antony 
By  our  permission  is  allow'd  to  make. 
I  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart, 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  [Exit. 

First    Citizen.      Stay,    ho!    and    let   us    hear    Mark 
Antony. 

Third   Citizen.      Let  him   go    up   into    the   public 
chair ; 
We'll  hear  him. — Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Antony.     For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholding  to  you. 

Fourth  Citizen.     What  does  he  say  of  Brutus? 

Third  Citizen.  He  says,  for  Brutus'  sake, 

He  finds  himself  beholding  to  us  all. 
Fourth  Citizen.      'Twere  best  he   speak  no  harm  of 
Brutus  here. 

First  Citizen,     This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

Third  Citizen.  Nay,  that's  certain; 

We  are  blest  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

Second  Citizen.     Peace,  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can 
say. 

Antony.     You  gentle  Romans, — 

All,  Peace,  ho !  let  us  hear  him. 


346  The  FORUM   SCENE 

Antony.     Friends,   Romans,   countrymen,  lend  me 
your  ears ; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious; 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault. 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer'd  it. 
Here,  tmder  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest, — 
For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men, — 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me: 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransom  did  the  general  coffers  fill ; 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious? 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept; 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff. 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown. 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition? 
Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious; 
And,  sure,  he  is  an  honourable  man. 
I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 
But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  caus6 ; 
What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for  him? 
O  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  347 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason! — Bear  with  me; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

First  Citizen.     Methinks  there  is  much  reason  in  his 

sayings. 
Second   Citizen.     If  thou   consider   rightly   of  the 
matter, 
Caesar  has  had  great  wrong. 

Third  Citizen.  Has  he,  masters? 

I  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

Fourth  Citizen.     Mark'd  ye  his  words?     He  would 
not  take  the  crown ; 
Therefore  'tis  certain  he  was  not  ambitious. 

First  Citizen.     If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide 

it. 
Second  Citizen.     Poor  soul!  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire 

with  v/eeping. 
Third  Citizen.      There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome 

than  Antony. 
Fourth  Citizen.     Now  mark  him,  he  begins  again  to 
speak. 

Antony.     But  yesterday  the  word  of  Caesar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world;  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters!  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honourable  men. 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong;  I  rather  choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself  and  you, 
Than  I  will  wrong  such  honourable  men. 
But  here's  a  parchment,  with  the  seal  of  Caesar; 


348  The  FORUM    SCENE 

I  found  it  in  his  closet;  'tis  his  will. 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament — 

Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read — 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds, 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood. 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 

Unto  their  issue. 

Fourth  Citizen.    We'll  hear  the  will.     Read  it,  Mark 
Antony. 

All.      The  will,  the  will !  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will. 

Antony.     Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not 
read  it; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad. 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs; 
For  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  it? 

Fourth    Citizen.      Read    the    will!    we'll    hear    it, 
Antony! 
You  shall  read  us  the  will!     Caesar's  will! 

Antony.      Will    you   be    patient?      Will    you    stay 
awhile? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself,  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honourable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Caesar;  I  do  fear  it. 

Fourth  Citizen.     They  were  traitors!     Honourable 
men! 

All.     The  will !  the  testament ! 

Second   Citizen.      They   were    villains,    murderers! 
The  will!     Read  the  will! 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  349 

Antony.     You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the  will? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend?     And  will  you  give  me  leave? 

All.     Come  down. 

Second  Citizen.     Descend. 

[He  comes  down  from  the  pulpit. 

Third  Citizen.     You  shall  have  leave. 

Fourth  Citizen.     A  ring;  stand  round. 

First  Citizen.     Stand  from  the  hearse,  stand  from 
the  body. 

Second   Citizen.     Room    for  Antony! — most   noble 
Antony ! 

Antony.     Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me ;  stand  far  off. 

All.  '  Stand  back !  room !  bear  back ! 

Antony.     If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them 
now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle:  I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Csesar  put  it  on ; 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 
Look!  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through; 
See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made ; 
Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd; 
And  as  he  pluck 'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Csesar  followed  it, 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no ; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 
Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  lov'd  him! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 
For,  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 


350  The  FORUM   SCENE 

Quite  vanquish'd  him:  then  burst  his  mighty  heart; 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua. 

Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 

O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen ! 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 

Whilst  bloody  treason  fiourish'd  over  us. 

O,  now  you  weep,  and  I  perceive  you  feel 

The  dint  of  pity ;  these  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls,  what !  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 

Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded?     Look  you  here. 

Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

First  Citizen.     O  piteous  spectacle! 

Second  Citizen.     O  noble  Caesar! 

Third  Citizen.     O  woful  day! 

Fourth  Citizen.     O  traitors,  villains! 

First  Citizen.     O  most  bloody  sight! 

Second  Citizen.     We  will  be  reveng'd! 

All.     Revenge!    About!    Seek!    Burn!    Fire!    Kill! 
Slay !     Let  not  a  traitor  live ! 

Antony.     Stay,  countrymen. 

First  citizen.     Peace  there !    Hear  the  noble  Antony. 

Second  Citizen.      We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him, 
we'll  die  with  him. 

Antony.     Good   friends,  sweet   friends,  let  me  not 
stir  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honourable, 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas!  I  know  not, 
That  made  them  do  it;  they  are  wise  and  honourable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts; 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is, 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  351 

But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 

That  love  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 

For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 

Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 

To  stir  men's  blood:  I  only  speak  right  on; 

I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know, 

Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,   poor   dumb 

mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me :  but,  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus,  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Csesar  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 

All.     We'll  mutiny. 

First  Citizen.     We'll  burn  the  house  of  Brutus. 

Third  Citizen.     Away,  then !    come,  seek    the  con- 
spirators. 

Antony.     Yet  hear  me,  countrymen;   yet  hear  me 
speak. 

All.     Peace,  ho !     Hear  Antony,  most  noble  Antony. 

Antony.     Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not 
what. 
Wherein  hath  Csesar  thus  deserv'd  your  loves? 
Alas,  you  know  not ! — I  must  tell  you,  then. 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

Citizen.     Most  true; — the  will! — let's  stay,  and  hear 
the  will. 

Antony.     Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

Second  Citizen.     Most  noble  Caesar! — we'll  revenge 
his  death. 


352  The  FORUM   SCENE 

Third  Citizen.     O  royal  Caesar! 

Antony.     Hear  me  with  patience. 

All.     Peace,  ho! 

Antony.     Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbours,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber ;  he  hath  left  them  you, 
And  to  your  heirs  forever,  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Csesar!  when  comes  such  another? 

First  Citizen.     Never,  never! — Come,  away,  away! 
We'll  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 
And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

Second  Citizen.     Go,  fetch  fire. 

Third  Citizen.     Pluck  down  benches. 

Fourth  Citizen.     Pluck  down  forms,  windows,   any 
thing.  [Exeunt  Citizens,  with  the  body. 

Antony.     Now  let  it  work.     Mischief,  thou  art  afoot. 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt! 


WIVES  IN  A  SOCIAL  GAME.     Anonymous. 

BIGGSBY  and  his  wife  went  around  to  the  Crosbys' 
the  other  night  to  spend  the  evening,  and  they 
had  been  there  only  a  short  time  when  Crosby  said : 

"S'posing  we  have  a  game  of  euchre." 

"Oh,  let's!"  said  Mrs.  Biggsby. 

"Think  euchre  is  perfectly  lovely,"  said  Mrs. 
Crosby,  and  Biggsby  said : 

"All  right,  we'll  have  a  game  or  two." 

So  the  cards  were  brought  out  and  a  table  cleared 
for  the  game.  Like  most  men,  Crosby  and  Biggsby 
liked  to  play  cards  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  life  and 
death,  but  it  was  different  with  the  women. 

"I  like  euchre  because  it  is  such  a  sociable  game," 
said  Mrs.  Biggsby,  as  she  munched  at  one  of  a  dish 
of  bonbons  Mrs.  Crosby  had  set  in  the  middle  of  the 
table,  and  Crosby  had  somewhat  impatiently  set  it 
aside. 

"Now,  in  whist  one  has  to  give  such  close  attention 
to  the  game  that— — "  began  Mrs.  Biggsby,  when 
Biggsby  interrupted  with : 

"Come,  cut  for  deal." 

"Hope  I'll  get  it,"  said  Mrs.  Crosby,  with  a  chuckle. 

"You'll  be  real  mean  if  you  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Biggsby.  "I  always  like  to — Oh,  Mr.  Crosby  has  the 
deal,  and  he's  my  partner.     Goody,  goody!" 

"You're  horrid!  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  met  May  Grigg- 
son  and  her  baby  on  the  street  this  afternoon.  She'd 
been  down  getting  the  baby  photographed.  I'd 
never  seen  her  baby  before,  although  it's  five  months 
old  and " 

"I've  never  seen  it  yet.     Is  it  pretty?" 

"Well,   it  has   May's  eyes    and  nose  to  a   T,  but, 

353 


354  WIVES  in  a  SOCIAL   GAME 

of  course,  one  can*t  tell  how  such  a  young  baby  will 
look  when — Oh!  are  those  my  cards?    What's  trumps?" 

"Hearts." 

"Oh,  mercy!  I've  a  perfectly  awful  hand!  I 
hope  my  partner ' ' 

"Come,  come,"  says  Crosby,  "no  talking  across 
the  table.     What  will  you  do?" 

"Oh,  I  pass!     I  haven't  a  single  trump,  and — — " 


ti  - 


'I'm  not  much  better  off,"  says  Mrs.  Crosby. 
"But  about  May  Griggson.  They  say  that  Tom,  her 
husband,  thinks  that  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  that 
baby,  and  that  May  won't  leave  it  for  an  hour,  not 
even  with  her  own  mother,  and — oh,  did  you  know 
that  Jennie  Traft's  engagement  to  Fred  Hilton  had 
been  announced?" 

"No." 

"It's  so,  and — oh,  is  it  my  play?     What's  trumps?" 

"Hearts." 

"Who  led?" 

"Crosby." 

"Then  I — oh,  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to  play. 
Let  me  see,  I've  got  to  follow  suit,  haven't  I?  I 
guess  this  nine  spot  will  do.  As  I  was  saying,  Jennie 
and  Fred  are  engaged  at  last,  and  they  say  that  the 
wedding  is  to  be  right  away,  for — isn't  that  a  new 
waist  you  have  on?" 

"Yes— you  like  it?" 

"I  think  it's  lovely.  Here  they  said  two  years  ago 
that  the  fancy  waist  was  going  out,  and  I  do  believe 
that  they  are  worn  more  than  ever." 

"Of  course  they  are  for — What?  It's  my  play? 
What's  trumps?  Hearts?  Why,  I  thought  diamonds 
were  trumps.     Well,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference, 


ANONYMOUS  355 

for  I  haven't  any.  What's  led?  Spades?  Who  played 
that  ten  spot?  I  haven't  any  spades,  and  so  I  guess  I'd 
better  trump  it  for — oh,  my  partner  has  already 
trumped  it  with  the  right  bower,  and  there  I  threw 
away  that  good  left  bower.  That's  too  bad.  But, 
as  I  was  saying,  my  dressmaker  says  that  she  has 
made  more  fancy  waists  this  season  than  ever 
before." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  I'm  having  me  one  made  of 
black  chiffon  over  orange  silk,  with  beautiful  jet 
passementeries  and — What?  It's  my  play?  Let  me 
see — what's  trumps?  Hearts?  Well,  you  needn't  be 
so  cross  about  it,  Mr.  Biggsby.     What  led?" 

"Diamonds." 

"Diamonds.  And  you  say  that  hearts  are  trumps? 
Hearts,  hearts;  I  haven't  any  hearts  nor  any  trumps, 
so  I'll  play  this  club  for — yes,  it's  of  fine  black  chiffon, 
and  you  can't  think  how  lovely  the  orange  taifeta  silk 
looks  under  it.  The  chiffon  tones  the  orange  down  to 
the  loveliest  tint  of  pinkish  yellow,  and  I'm  having 
rows  and  rows  of  fine  tucking  in  front  and " 

"I  should  think  it  would  be  lovely.  But  aren't  you 
sorry  those  cunning  and  pretty  little  boleros  have  gone 
out  now  that — oh,  it's  my  play.     What's  trumps? 

"Hearts!"  growls  Crosby. 

"Mercy!  Don't  take  my  head  off  if  hearts  are 
trumps.  Jack  Crosby!  That's  the  way  with  men;  they 
play  cards  as  if  their  lives  were  at  stake,  and  I,  oh, 
say,  maybe,  s'posing  we  let  Jack  and  George  finish  the 
game  and  you  go  upstairs  with  me  and  see  a  new  bon- 
net I've  just  had  sent  home.  It's  the  most  fetching 
thing  I've  had  for  years,  and  I'm  dying  to  show  it  to 
you.     I  don't  care  for  euchre,  anyhow," 


356  WIVES  i?i  a  SOCIAL  GAME 


((■ 


'Neither  do  I.     Whist  is  my  gfame." 

*'Mine,  too.  There!  You  horrid,  cross  men,  you! 
Go  on  with  the  game  by  yourselves!" 

Which  they  were  glad  to  do  after  changing  the  game 
from  euchre  to  poker. 


SOLILOQUIES    FROM   "HAMLET."      By  WILL- 
IAM SHAKSPERE. 

HAMLET.     O  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would 
melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fix'd 
His  canon  'gainst  self -slaughter!     O  God!     O  God! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world ! 
Fieon't!     O  fie!  'tis  an  un weeded  garden, 
That    grows    to    seed  ;     things    rank    and    gross    in 

nature 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this! 
But  two  months  dead!  nay,  not  so  much,  not  two: 
So  excellent  a  king;  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr;  so  loving  to  my  mother 
That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth! 
Must  I  remember?     Why,  she  would  hang  on  him, 
As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on ;  and  yet,  within  a  month — 
Let  me  not  think  on't — Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman! — 
A  little  month,  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 
With  which  she  foUow'd  my  poor  father's  body. 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears, — why  she,  even  she — 
O  God !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would  have  mourn'd  longer — married  with  my  uncle. 
My  father's  brother,  but  no  more  like  my  father 
Than  I  to  Hercules.     Within  a  month? 
Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  her  galled  eyes. 
She  married.     O  most  wicked  speed,  to  post 
With  such  dexterity  to  incestuous  sheets, 

357 


358  SOLILOQUIES  from  "HAMLET" 

It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to  good ; — 

But  break  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue. 

Hamlet.     Now  I  am  alone. 

O,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I! 

Is  it  not  monstrous  that  this  player  here, 

But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 

Could  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit 

That  from  her  working  all  his  visage  wann'd, 

Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in's  aspect, 

A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 

With  forms  to  his  conceit?     And  all  for  nothing! 

For  Hecuba! 

What's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 

That  he  should  weep  for  her?     What  would  he  do, 

Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion 

That  I  have?     He  would  drown  the  stage  with  tears 

And  cleave  the  general  ear  with  horrid  speech. 

Make  mad  the  guilty  and  appall  the  free, 

Confound  the  ignorant,  and  amaze  indeed 

The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears. 

Yet  I, 

A  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak. 

Like  John-a-dreams,  unpregnant  of  my  cause, 

And  can  say  nothing;  no,  not  for  a  king. 

Upon  whose  property  and  most  dear  life 

A  damn'd  defeat  was  made.     Am  I  a  coward? 

Who  calls  me  villain?  breaks  my  pate  across? 

Plucks  off  my  beard,  and  blows  it  in  my  face? 

Tweaks  me  by  the  nose?  gives  me  the  lie  i'  the  throat, 

As  deep  as  to  the  lungs?  who  does  me  this? 

Ha! 

'S wounds,  I  should  take  it;  for  it  cannot  be 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  359 

But  I  am  pigeon-liver'd  and  lack  gall 

To  make  oppression  bitter,  or  ere  this 

I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 

With  this  slave's  offal.     Bloody,  bawdy  villain! 

Remorseless,  treacherous,  lecherous,  kindless  villain! 

0  vengeance! 

Why,  what  an  ass  am  I !     This  is  most  brave, 

That  I,  the  son  of  a  dear  father  murder'd. 

Prompted  to  my  revenge  by  heaven  and  hell, 

Must  fall  a-cursing,  like  a  very  drab, 

A  scullion! 

Fie  upon't!  foh!     About,  my  brain!     I  have  heard 

That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play 

Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 

Been  struck  so  to  the  soul  that  presently 

They  have  proclaim'd  their  malefactions; 

For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 

With  most  miraculous  organ.     I'll  have  these  players 

Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father 

Before  mine  uncle:  I'll  observe  his  looks; 

I'll  tent  him  to  the  quick:  if  he  but  blench, 

1  know  my  course.     The  spirit  that  I  have  seen 
May  be  the  devil ;  and  the  devil  hath  power 
To  assume  a  pleasing  shape ;  yea,  and  perhaps 
Out  of  my  weakness  and  my  melancholy, 

As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits, 
Abuses  me  to  damn  me.     I'll  have  grounds 
More  relative  than  this;  the  play's  the  thing 
Wherein  I'll  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king. 

Hamlet.     To  be,  or  not  to  be, — that  is  the  question: 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 


36o  SOLILOQUIES  from  "HAMLET" 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And  by  opposing  end  them?     To  die, — to  sleep, — 

No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 

The  heart-ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 'tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die, — to  sleep, — 

To  sleep!  perchance  to  dream!  ay,  there's  the  rub; 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Must  give  us  pause :  there's  the  respect 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life ; 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time. 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 

The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love,  the  law's  delay. 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin?  who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life. 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 

The  undiscover'd  country  from  whose  bourn 

No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will, 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought, 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment 

With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry. 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 

King.     O,  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven ; 
It  hath  the  primal  eldest  curse  upon  't, 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  361 

A  brother's  murder!     Pray  can  I  not, 

Though  inclination  be  as  sharp  as  will ; 

My  stronger  guilt  defeats  my  strong  intent, 

And,  like  a  man  to  double  business  bound, 

I  stand  in  pause  where  I  shall  first  begin, 

And  both  neglect.     What  if  this  cursed  hand 

Were  thicker  than  itself  with  brother's  blood, 

Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens 

To  wash  it  white  as  snow?     Whereto  serves  mercy 

But  to  confront  the  visage  of  offence? 

And  what's  in  prayer  but  this  twofold  force,— 

To  be  forestalled  ere  we  come  to  fall, 

Or  pardon 'd  being  down?     Then  I'll  look  up; 

My  fault  is  past.     But,  O,  what  form  of  prayer 

Can  serve  my  turn?     'Forgive  me  my  foul  murder?' 

That  cannot  be;  since  I  am  still  possess'd 

Of  those  effects  for  which  I  did  the  murder. 

My  crown,  mine  own  ambition,  and  my  queen. 

May  one  be  pardon 'd  and  retain  the  offence? 

In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world 

Offence's  gilded  hand  may  shove  by  justice, 

And  oft  'tis  seen  the  wicked  prize  itself 

Buys  out  the  law;  but  'tis  not  so  above: 

There  is  no  shuffling,  there  the  action  lies 

In  his  true  nature,  and  we  ourselves  compell'd 

Even  to  the  teeth  and  forehead  of  our  faults 

To  give  in  evidence.     What  then?  what  rests? 

Try  what  repentance  can:  what  can  it  not? 

Yet  what  can  it  when  one  can  not  repent? 

O  wretched  state!     O  bosom  black  as  death! 

O  limed  soul,  that  struggling  to  be  free 

Art  more  engag'd!     Help,  angels!     Make  assay! 

Bow,  stubborn  knees;  and,  heart  with  strings  of  steel. 


362  SOLILOQUIES  from  "HAMLET" 

Be  soft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe ! 
All  may  be  well.  [Retire's  and  kneels. 

[Enter  Hamlet] 
Hamlet.     Now  might  I  do  it  pat,  now  he  is  praying; 
And  now  I'll  do  't. — And  so  he  goes  to  heaven; 
And  so  am  I  reveng'd.     That  would  be  scann'd: 
A  villain  kills  my  father;  and  for  that, 
I,  his  sole  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven. 

O,  this  is  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge. 
He  took  my  father  grossly,  full  of  bread, 
With  all  his  crimes  broad  blown,  as  flush  as  May; 
And  how  his  audit  stands  who  knows  save  heaven? 
But  in  our  circumstance  and  course  of  thought, 
'Tis  heavy  with  him;  and  am  I  then  reveng'd. 
To  take  him  in  the  purging  of  his  soul, 
When  he  is  fit  and  season'd  for  his  passage? 
No! 

Up,  sword,  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  hent: 
When  he  is  drunk  asleep,  or  in  his  rage, 
Or  in  the  incestuous  pleasure  of  his  bed; 
At  gaming,  swearing,  or  about  some  act 
That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in't; 
Then  trip  him,  that  his  heels  may  kick  at  heaven. 
And  that  his  soul  may  be  as  damn'd  and  black 
As  hell,  whereto  it  goes.     My  mother  stays. — 
This  physic  but  prolongs  thy  sickly  days.  [Exit. 

King.     [Rising.]      My  words  fly  up,   my  thoughts 
remain  below; 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go.         [Exit. 

Hamlet.     How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge !     What  is  a  man, 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  363 

If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 

Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed?  a  beast,  no  more. 

Sure,  He  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse, 

Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 

That  capability  and  godlike  reason 

To  fust  in  us  unus'd.     Now,  whether  it  be 

Bestial  oblivion,  or  some  craven  scruple 

Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event, — 

A  thought  which,  quarter'd,  hath  but  one  part  wisdom 

And  ever  three  parts  coward, — ^I  do  not  know 

Why  yet  I  live  to  say,  'This  thing's  to  do,' 

Sith  I  have  cause  and  will  and  strength  and  means 

To  do  't.     Examples  gross  as  earth  exhort  me; 

Witness  this  army  of  such  mass  and  charge, 

Led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince, 

Whose  spirit  with  divine  ambition  puff'd 

Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event, 

Exposing  what  is  mortal  and  unsure 

To  all  that  fortune,  death,  and  danger  dare, 

Even  for  an  egg-shell.     Rightly  to  be  great 

Is  not  to  stir  without  great  argument. 

But  greatly  to  find  quarrel  in  a  straw 

When  honour's  at  the  stake.     How  stand  I  then, 

That  have  a  father  kill'd,  a  mother  stain'd, 

Excitements  of  my  reason  and  my  blood, 

And  let  all  sleep,  while  to  my  shame  I  see 

The  imminent  death  of  twenty  thousand  men, 

That  for  a  fantasy  and  trick  of  fame 

Go  to  their  graves  like  beds,  fight  for  a  plot 

Whereon  the  numbers  cannot  try  the  cause, 

Which  is  not  tomb  enough  and  continent 

To  hide  the  slain?     O,  from  this  time  forth, 

My  thoughts  be  bloody,  or  be  nothing  worth ! 


LADY  GAY  SPANKER.  From  "London  Assur- 
ance." Persons  represented:  Sir  Harconrt  Courtly, 
Max  Harkaway,  Young  Courtly  (under  the  assumed 
name  of  Mr.  Hamilton),  Dazzle,  James,  Grace  Hark- 
away,  Lady  Gay  Spanker.     By  DION  BOUCICAULT. 

MAX. — Here,  all  of  you — look,  here  is  Lady  Gay 
Spanker  coming  across  the  lawn  at  a  hand  gallop ! 

Sir  H.  (running  to  the  window). — Bless  me,  the 
horse  is  running  away! 

Max. — Look  how  she  takes  that  fence !  there's  a  seat. 

Sir  H. — Lady  Gay  Spanker — who  may  she  be? 

Grace. — Gay  Spanker,  Sir  Harcourt?  My  cousin  and 
dearest  friend — you  must  like  her. 

Sir  H. — It  will  be  my  devoir,  since  it  is  your  wish — 
though  it  will  be  a  hard  task  in  your  presence. 

Grace, — I  am  sure  she  will  like  you. 

Sir  H.— Ha!  ha!     I  flatter  myself. 

Young  C. — Who,  and  what  is  she? 

Grace. — Glee,  glee,  made  a  living  thing — Nature,  in 
some  frolic  mood,  shut  up  a  merry  devil  in  her  eye, 
and,  spiting  Art,  stole  joy's  brightest  harmony  to 
thrill  her  laugh,  which  peals  out  sorrow's  knell.  Her 
cry  rings  loudest  in  the  field — the  very  echo  loves  it 
best,  and  as  each  hill  attempts  to  ape  her  voice.  Earth 
seems  to  laugh  that  it  made  a  thing  too  glad. 

Max. — Ay,  the  merriest  minx  I  ever  kissed.  [Lady 
Gay  laughs  without. 

Lady  G.  (without). — Max! 

Max. — Come  in,  you  mischievous  puss. 

[Enter  James.] 

James.  Mr.  Adolphus  and  Lady  Gay  Spanker. 
[Exit. 

[Enter  Lady  Gay,  fully  equipped  in  riding  habit,  etc.  ] 

3C)4 


By  DION    BOUCICAULT  365 

Lady  Gay. — Ha!  ha!  Well,  Governor,  how  are  ye? 
I  have  been  down  five  times,  climbing-  up  your  stairs 
in  my  long  clothes.  How  are  you,  Grace,  dear? 
(Kisses  her.)  There,  don't  fidget,  Max.  And  there — 
(kisses  him),  there's  one  for  you. 

Sir  H.— Ahem! 

Lady  Gay. — Oh,  gracious,  I  didn't  see  you  had 
visitors. 

Max. — Permit  me  to  introduce  —  Sir  Harcourt 
Courtly,  Lady  Gay  Spanker.  Mr.  Dazzle,  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton— Lady  Gay  Spanker. 

Lady  Gay. — You  mustn't  think  anything  of  the 
liberties  I  take  with  my  old  papa  here — bless  him ! 

Sir  H. — Oh,  no!  (Aside.)  I  only  thought  I  should 
like  to  be  in  his  place. 

Lady  Gay. — I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,  Sir  Har- 
court. Now  we  shall  be  able  to  make  a  decent  figure 
at  the  heels  of  a  hunt. 

Sir  H. — Does  your  Ladyship  hunt? 

Lady  Gay. — Ha!  I  say.  Governor,  does  my  Lady- 
ship hunt?  I  rather  flatter  myself  that  I  do  hunt! 
Why,  Sir  Harcourt,  one  might  as  well  live  without 
laughing  as  without  hunting.  Man  was  fashioned 
expressly  to  fit  a  horse.  Are  not  hedges  and  ditches 
created  for  leaps?  Of  course!  And  I  look  upon  foxes 
to  be  one  of  the  most  blessed  dispensations  of  a  benign 
Providence. 

Sir  H. — Yes,  it  is  all  very  well  in  the  abstract:  I 
tried  it  once. 

Lady  Gay. — Once!      Only  once? 

Sir  H. — Once,  only  once.  And  then  the  animal  ran 
away  with  me. 

Lady  Gay. — Why,  you  would  not  have  him  walk? 


366  LADY   GAY   SPANKER 

Sir  H. — Finding  my  society  disagreeable,  he  insti- 
tuted a  series  of  kicks,  with  a  view  to  removing  the 
annoyance ;  but  aided  by  the  united  stays  of  the  mane 
and  tail  I  frustrated  his  intentions.  (All  laugh.)  His 
next  resource,  however,  was  more  effectual,  for  he 
succeeded  in  rubbing  me  up  against  a  tree. 

Max  and  Lady  Gay. — Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Daz. — How  absurd  you  must  have  looked  with  your 
legs  and  arms  in  the  air,  like  a  shipwrecked  tea-table! 

Sir  H. — Sir,  I  never  looked  absurd  in  my  life.  Ah, 
it  may  be  very  amusing  in  relation,  I  dare  say,  but 
very  unpleasant  in  effect. 

Lady  Gay. — I  pity  you,  Sir  Harcourt;  it  was  crim- 
inal in  your  parents  to  neglect  your  education  so 
shamefully. 

Max. — Ah!  Sir  Harcourt,  had  you  been  here  a 
month  ago,  you  would  have  witnessed  the  most  glori- 
ous run  that  ever  swept  over  merry  England's  green 
cheek — a  steeple-chase,  sir,  which  I  intended  to  win, 
but  my  horse  broke  down  the  day  before.  I  had  a 
chance,  notwithstanding;  but  for  Gay  here,  I  should 
have  won.  How  I  regretted  my  absence  from  it! 
How  did  my  filly  behave  herself,  Gay? 

Lady  Gay. — Gloriously,  Max !  gloriously !  There  were 
sixty  horses  in  the  field,  all  mettle  to  the  bone ;  the 
start  was  a  picture — away  we  went  in  a  cloud — pell- 
mell — helter-skelter — the  fools  first,  as  usual,  using 
themselves  up — we  soon  passed  them — first  your  Kitty, 
then  my  Blueskin,  and  Craven's  colt  last.  Then  came 
the  tug — Kitty  skimmed  the  walls — Blueskin  flew  over 
the  fences — the  Colt  neck-and-neck,  and  half  a  mile  to 
run — at  last  the  Colt  balked  a  leap  and  went  wild. 
Kitty  and  I  had  it   all  to  ourselves — she   was  three 


By  DION    BOUCICAULT  367 

lengths  ahead  as  we  breasted  the  last  wall,  six  feet,  if 
an  inch,  and  a  ditch  on  the  other  side.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  I  gave  Blueskin  his  head — ha!  ha!  Away 
he  flew,  like  a  thunderbolt — over  went  the  filly — I  over 
the  same  spot,  leaving  Kitty  in  the  ditch — walked  the 
steeple,  eight  miles  in  thirty  minutes,  and  scarcely 
turned  a  hair. 

All. — Bravo!     Bravo! 

Lady  Gay. — Do  you  hunt? 

Daz. — Hunt!  I  belong  to  a  hunting  family.  I  was 
born  on  horseback  and  cradled  in  a  kennel!  Ay,  and 
I  hope  I  may  die  with  a  whoo- whoop ! 

Max  (to  Sir  H.). — You  must  leave  your  town  habits 
in  the  smoke  of  London :  here  we  rise  with  the  lark. 

Sir  H. — Haven't  the  remotest  conception  when  that 
period  is. 

Grace. — The  man  that  misses  sunrise  loses  the  sweet- 
est part  of  his  existence. 

Sir  H. — Oh,  pardon  me;  I  have  seen  sunrise  fre- 
quently after  a  ball,  or  from  the  windows  of  my  travel- 
ling carriage,  and  I  always  considered  it  disagreeable. 

Grace. — I  love  to  watch  the  first  tear  that  glistens  in 
the  opening  eye  of  morning,  the  silent  song  the 
flowers  breathe,  the  thrilling  choir  of  the  woodland 
minstrels,  to  which  the  modest  brook  trickles 
applause: — these,  swelling  out  the  sweetest  chord  of 
sweet  creation's  matins,  seem  to  pour  some  soft  and 
merry  tale  into  the  daylight's  ear,  as  if  the  waking 
world  had  dreamed  a  happy  thing,  and  now  smiled  o'er 
the  telling  of  it. 

Sir  H. — The  effect  of  a  rustic  education!  Who  could 
ever  discover  music  in  a  damp,  foggy  morning,  except 
those  confounded  waits,  who  never  play  in  tune,  and  a 


368  LADY    GAY    SPANKER 

miserable  wretch  who  makes  a  point  of  crying  coffee 
under  my  window  just  as  I  am  persuading  myself  to 
sleep?  In  fact,  I  never  heard  any  music  worth  listening 
to,  except  in  Italy. 

Lady  Gay. — No?  then  you  never  heard  a  well- 
trained  English  pack  in  full  cry? 

Sir  H.— Full  cry! 

Lady  G. — Ay!  there  is  harmony,  if  you  will.  Give 
me  the  trumpet-neigh;  the  spotted  pack  just  catching 
scent.  "What  a  chorus  is  their  yelp!  The  view-hallo, 
blent  with  a  peal  of  free  and  fearless  mirth!  That's 
our  old  English  music, — match  it  where  you  can. 
Time  then  appears  as  young  as  love,  and  plumes  as 
swift  a  wing.  Away  we  go !  The  earth  flies  back  to 
aid  our  course!  Horse,  man,  hound,  earth,  heaven! — 
all — all — one  piece  of  glowing  ecstacy!  Then  I  love 
the  world,  myself,  and  every  living  thing, — my  jocund 
soul  cries  out  for  very  glee,  as  it  could  wish  that  all 
creation  had  but  one  mouth,  that  I  might  kiss  it! 


THE    DEATH    OF    MME.    DEFARGE.     From  "A 
Tale  of  Two  Cities."     By  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

THERE  were  many  women  during  the  French 
Revolution  upon  whom  the  time  laid  a  dreadfully 
disfiguring  hand ;  but  there  was  not  one  among  them 
more  to  be  dreaded  than  that  ruthless  woman,  Madame 
Defarge,  now  taking  her  way  along  the  streets.  She 
was  absolutely  without  pity.  To  appeal  to  her,  was 
made  hopeless  by  her  having  no  sense  of  pity,  even 
for  herself. 

Such  a  heart  Madame  Defarge  carried  under  her 
rough  robe.  Carelessly  worn,  it  was  a  becoming  robe 
enough,  in  a  certain  weird  way,  and  her  dark  hair 
looked  rich  under  her  coarse  red  cap.  Lying  hidden 
in  her  bosom  was  a  loaded  pistol.  Lying  hidden  at 
her  waist  was  a  sharpened  dagger.  Thus  accoutred, 
and  walking  with  the  confident  tread  of  such  a  char- 
acter, and  with  the  supple  freedom  of  a  woman  who 
had  habitually  walked  in  her  girlhood,  barefoot  and 
barelegged,  on  the  brown  sea-sand,  Madame  Defarge 
took  her  way  along  the  streets. 

Now,  when  the  journey  of  the  travelling  coach,  at 
that  very  moment  waiting  for  the  completion  of  its 
load,  had  been  planned  out  last  night,  the  difficulty  of 
taking  Miss  Pross  in  it  was  a  serious  consideration. 
Finally,  it  was  settled  that  Miss  Pross  and  Jerry,  who 
were  at  liberty  to  leave  the  city,  should  leave  it  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  lightest-wheeled  conveyance 
known  to  that  period. 

Seeing  in  this  arrangement  the  hope  of  rendering 
real  service  in  that  pressing  emergency.  Miss  Pross 
hailed  it  with  joy.  She  and  Jerry  had  beheld  the 
coach  start,  had  passed  some  ten  minutes  in  tortures  of 

369 


370         The  DEATH  of  MME.   DEFARGE 

suspense,  and  were  now  concluding  their  arrangements 
to  follow  the  coach,  even  as  Madame  Defarge,  taking 
her  way  through  the  streets,  now  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  else -deserted  lodging  in  which  they  held 
their  consultation. 

"Now,  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Cruncher,"  said  Miss 
Pross,  whose  agitation  was  so  great  that  she  could 
hardly  speak,  or  stand,  or  move,  or  live;  "what  do  you 
think  of  our  not  starting  from  this  court-yard?  Another 
carriage  having  gone  from  here  to-day,  it  might 
awaken  suspicion. ' ' 

"My  opinion,  miss,"  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  "is  as 
you're  right  Likewise,  wot  I'll  stand  by  you,  right  or 
wrong. ' ' 

"I  am  so  distracted  with  fear  and  hope  for  our 
precious  creatures,  that  I  am  incapable  of  forming  any 
plan.  Are  you  capable  of  forming  any  plan,  my  dear, 
good  Mr.  Cruncher?' ' 

"Respectin'  a  future  spear  o'  life,  miss,"  returned 
Mr.  Cruncher,  "I  hope  so.  Respectin'  any  present 
use  o'  this  here  blessed  head  o'  mine,  I  think  not. 
Would  you  do  me  the  favour,  miss,  to  take  notice  o' 
two  promises  and  wows  wot  it  is  my  wishes  fur  to 
record  in  this  here  crisis?" 

"Oh,  for  gracious  sake  !  record  them  at  once, 
and    get    them    out    of    the   way,    like    an   excellent 


man." 


"First,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  was  all  in  a  tremble, 
and  who  spoke  with  an  ashy  and  solemn  visage,  "them 
poor  things  well  out  o'  this,  never  no  more  will  I  do  it, 
never  no  more!" 

"I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Cruncher,"  returned  Miss 
Pross,  "that  you  never  will  do  it  again,  whatever  it  is, 


By  CHARLES    DICKENS  371 

and  I  beg  you  not  to  think  it  necessary  to  mention 
more  particularly  what  it  is." 

"No,  miss,"  returned  Jerry,  "it  shall  not  be  named 
to  you.  Second:  them  poor  things  well  out  o'  this, 
and  never  no  more  will  I  interfere  with  Mrs.  Crunch- 
er's flopping,  never  no  more!" 

"Whatever  housekeeping  arrangement  that  may  be," 
said  Miss  Pross,  striving  to  dry  her  eyes  and  compose 
herself,  "I  have  no  doubt  it  is  best  that  Mrs.  Cruncher 
should  have  it  entirely  under  her  own  superintendence 
— O  my  poor  darlings!" 

"I  go  so  far  as  to  say,  miss,  morehover,  and  let  my 
words  be  took  down  and  took  to  Mrs.  Cruncher 
through  yourself — that  wot  my  opinions  respectin' 
flopping  has  undergone  a  change,  and  that  wot  I  only 
hope  with  all  my  heart  as  Mrs.  Cruncher  may  be  a 
flopping  at  the  present  time." 

"There,  there,  there!  I  hope  she  is,  my  dear  man, 
and  I  hope  she  finds  it  answering  her  expectations." 

And  still  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along 
the  streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

"If  we  ever  get  back  to  our  native  land,"  said  Miss 
Pross,  "you  may  rely  upon  my  telling  Mrs.  Cruncher 
as  much  as  I  may  be  able  to  remember  and  under- 
stand of  what  you  have  so  impressively  said ;  and  at  all 
events  you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  bear  witness  to 
your  being  thoroughly  in  earnest  at  this  dreadful  time. 
Now,  pray,  let  us  think !  My  esteemed  Mr.  Cruncher, 
let  us  think!" 

Still,  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

"If  you  were  to  go  before,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "and 
stop  the  vehicle  and  horses  from  coming  here,  and 


372  The  DEATH  of  MME.   DEFARGE    - 

were  to  wait  somewhere  for  me;  wouldn't  that  be 
best?" 

Mr.  Cruncher  thought  it  might  be  best. 

"Where  could  you  wait  for  me?"  asked  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  so  bewildered  that  he  could  think 
of  no  locality  but  Temple  Bar.  Alas,  Temple  Bar  was 
hundreds  of  miles  away,  and  Madame  Defarge  was 
drawing  very  near  indeed. 

"By  the  cathedral  door,"  said  Miss  Pross.  "Would 
it  be  much  out  of  the  way  to  take  me  in,  near  the 
great  cathedral  door  between  the  two  towers?" 

"No,  miss,"  answered  Mr.  Cruncher. 

"Then,  like  the  best  of  men,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "go 
to  the  posting-house  straight,  and  make  that  change." 

"I  am  doubtful  about  leaving  of  you,  you  see.  We 
don't  known  what  may  happen." 

"Heaven  knows,  we  don't,"  returned  Miss  Pross, 
"but  have  no  fear  for  me.  Take  me  in  at  the  cathe- 
dral, at  three  o'clock,  or  as  near  it  as  you  can,  and  I 
am  sure  it  will  be  better  than  our  going  from  here.  I 
feel  certain  of  it.  There!  Bless  you,  Mr.  Cruncher! 
Think — not  of  me,  but  of  the  lives  that  may  depend  on 
both  of  us!" 

This  exordium,  and  Miss  Press's  two  hands  in  quiet 
agonised  entreaty  clasping  his,  decided  Mr.  Cruncher. 
With  an  encouraging  nod  or  two,  he  immediately  went 
out  to  alter  the  arrangements,  and  left  her  by  herself 
to  follow  as  she  had  proposed. 

The  having  originated  a  precaution  which  was 
already  in  course  of  execution,  was  a  great  relief  to 
Miss  Pross.  The  necessity  of  composing  her  appear- 
ance so  that  it  should  attract  no  special  notice  in  the 
streets,  was  another  relief.     She  looked  at  her  watch, 


By  CHARLES   DICKENS  373 

and  it  was  twenty  minutes  past  two.     She  had  no  time 
to  lose,  but  must  get  ready  at  once. 

Afraid,  in  her  extreme  perturbation,  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  deserted  rooms,  and  of  half-imagined  faces 
peeping  from  behind  every  open  door  in  them,  Miss 
Pross  got  a  basin  of  cold  water  and  began  laving  her 
eyes,  which  were  swollen  and  red.  Haunted  by  her 
feverish  apprehensions,  she  could  not  bear  to  have  her 
sight  obscured  for  a  minute  at  a  time  by  the  dripping 
water,  but  constantly  paused  and  looked  round  to  see 
that  there  was  no  one  watching  her.  In  one  of  those 
pauses  she  recoiled  and  cried  out,  for  she  saw  a  figure 
standing  in  the  room. 

The  basin  fell  to  the  ground  broken,  and  the  water 
flowed  to  the  feet  of  Madame  Defarge.  By  strange, 
stern  ways,  and  through  much  staining  blood,  those 
feet  had  come  to  meet  that  water. 

Madame  Defarge  looked  coldly  at  her,  and  said, 
"The  wife  of  Evremonde;  where  is  she?" 

It  flashed  upon  Miss  Press's  mind  that  the  doors 
were  all  standing  open,  and  would  suggest  the  flight. 
Her  first  act  was  to  shut  them.  There  were  four  in 
the  room,  and  she  shut  them  all.  She  then  placed 
herself  before  the  door  of  the  chamber  which  Lucie 
had  occupied. 

Madame  Defarge's  dark  eyes  followed  her  through 
this  rapid  movement,  and  rested  on  her  when  it  was 
finished.  Miss  Pross  had  nothing  beautiful  about  her; 
years  had  not  tamed  the  wildness,  or  softened  the 
grimness  of  her  appearance ;  but,  she,  too,  was  a 
determined  woman  in  her  different  way,  and  she 
measured  Madame  Defarge  with  her  eyes,  every  inch. 

"You  might,  from  your  appearance,  be  the  wife  of 


374         The  DEATH  of  MME.    DEFARGE 

Lucifer.     Nevertheless,  you  shall  not  get  the  better  of 
me.     I  am  an  Englishwoman." 

"On  my  way  j-onder, "  said  Madame  Defarge,  with 
a  slight  movement  of  her  hand  towards  the  fatal  spot, 
•'where  they  reserve  my  chair  and  my  knitting  for  me, 
I  am  come  to  make  my  compliments  to  her  in  passing. 
I  wish  to  see  her." 

"I  know  that  your  intentions  are  evil,"  said  Miss 
Pross,   "and  you  may  depend  upon  it,  I'll  hold  my^ 
own  against  them. ' ' 

Each  spoke  in  her  own  language ;  neither  understood 
the  other's  words;  both  were  very  watchful,  and  intent 
to  deduce  from  look  and  manner,  what  the  unintel- 
ligible words  meant. 

"It  will  do  her  no  good  to  keep  herself  concealed 
from  me  at  this  moment,"  said  Madame  Defarge. 
"Good  patriots  will  know  what  that  means.  Let  me 
see  her.  Go  tell  her  that  I  wish  to  see  her.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"If  those  eyes  of  yours  were  bed- winches, "  returned 
Miss  Pross,  "and  I  was  an  English  four-poster,  they 
shouldn't  loose  a  splinter  of  me.  No,  you  wicked 
foreign  woman;  I  am  your  match." 

"Woman,  imbecile  and  pig-like!  I  take  no  answer 
from  you.  I  demand  to  see  her.  Either  tell  her  that 
I  demand  to  see  her,  or  stand  out  of  the  way  of  the 
door  and  let  me  go  to  her!"  This,  with  an  angry 
explanatory  wave  of  her  right  arm. 

"I  little  thought,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "that  I  should 
ever  want  to  understand  your  nonsensical  language; 
but  I  would  give  all  I  have,  except  the  clothes  I  wear, 
to  know  whether  you  suspect  the  truth,  or  any  part 
of  it." 


By  CHARLES   DICKENS  375 

Neither  of  tliem  for  a  single  moment  released  the 
other's  eyes.  Madame  Defarge  had  not  moved  from 
the  spot  where  she  stood  when  Miss  Pross  first  became 
aware  of  her;  but  she  now  advanced  one  step. 

"I  am  a  Briton,"  said  Miss  Pross.  "I  am  desperate. 
I  don't  care  an  English  twopence  for  myself.  I  know 
that  the  longer  I  keep  you  here,  the  greater  hope  there 
is  for  my  Ladybird.  I'll  not  leave  a  handful  of  that 
dark  hair  upon  your  head,  if  you  lay  a  finger  on 
me!" 

Thus  Miss  Pross,  with  a  shake  of  her  head  and  a 
flash  of  her  eyes  between  every  sentence,  and  every 
rapid  sentence  a  whole  breath.  Thus  Miss  Pross,  who 
had  never  struck  a  blow  in  her  life. 

But  her  courage  was  of  that  emotional  nature  that  it 
brought  the  irrepressible  tears  into  her  eyes.  This 
was  a  courage  that  Madame  Defarge  so  little  compre- 
hended as  to  mistake  for  weakness.  "Ha!  ha!"  she 
laughed,  "you  poor  wretch!  What  are  you  worth!  I 
address  myself  to  that  Doctor. ' '  Then  she  raised  her 
voice  and  called  out,  "Citizen  Doctor!  Wife  of  Evr^- 
monde!  Child  of  Evr^monde!  Any  person  but  this 
miserable  fool,  answer  the  Citizeness  Defarge!" 

Perhaps  the  following  silence,  perhaps  some  latent 
disclosure  in  the  expression  of  Miss  Press's  face,  per- 
haps a  sudden  misgiving  apart  from  either  suggestion, 
whispered  to  Madame  Defarge  that  they  were  gone. 
Three  of  the  doors  she  opened  swiftly,  and  looked  in. 

"Those  rooms  are  all  in  disorder,  there  has  been 
hurried  packing,  there  are  odds  and  ends  upon  the 
ground.  There  is  no  one  in  that  room  behind  you! 
Let  me  look." 

"Never!"    said    Miss    Pross,    who    understood    the 


376         The  DEATH  of  MME.    DEFARGE 

request  as  perfectly  as  Madame  Defarge  understood 
the  answer. 

"If  they  are  not  in  that  room,  they  are  gone,  and 
can  be  pursued  and  brought  back,"  said  Madame 
Defarge  to  herself. 

"As  long  as  you  don't  know  whether  they  are  in 
that  room  or  not,  you  are  uncertain  what  to  do, ' '  said 
Miss  Pross  to  herself;  ,"and  you  shall  not  know  that, 
if  I  can  prevent  your  knowing  it ;  and  know  that,  or 
not  know  that,  you  shall  not  leave  here  while  I  can 
hold  you. '  * 

"I  have  been  in  the  streets  from  the  first,  nothing 
has  stopped  me,  I  will  tear  you  to  pieces,  but  I  will 
have  you  from  that  door, ' '  said  Madame  Defarge. 

"We  are  alone  at  the  top  of  a  high  house  in  a  soli- 
tary courtyard,  we  are  not  likely  to  be  heard,  and  I 
pray  for  bodily  strength  to  keep  you  here,  while  every 
minute  you  are  here  is  worth  a  hundred  thousand 
guineas  to  my  darling,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

Madame  Defarge  made  at  the  door.  Miss  Pross,  on 
the  instinct  of  the  moment,  seized  her  round  the  waist 
in  both  her  arms,  and  held  her  tight.  It  was  in  vain 
for  Madame  Defarge  to  struggle  and  to  strike;  Miss 
Pross,  with  the  vigorous  tenacity  of  love,  always  so 
much  stronger  than  hate,  clasped  her  tight,  and  even 
lifted  her  from  the  floor  in  the  struggle  that  they  had. 
The  two  hands  of  Madame  Defarge  buffeted  and  tore 
her  face;  but  Miss  Pross,  with  her  head  down,  held 
her  round  the  waist,  and  clung  to  her  with  more  than 
the  hold  of  a  drowning  woman. 

Soon,  Madame  Defarge 's  hands  ceased  to  strike,  and 
felt  at  her  encircled  waist.  "It  is  under  my  arm," 
said  Miss  Pross,  in  smothered  tones,  "you  shall  not 


By  CHARLES   DICKENS  377 

draw  it.  I  am  strong-er  than  you,  I  bless  Heaven  for 
it.     I'll  hold  yon  till  one  or  other  of  us  faints  or  dies!" 

Madame  Defarge's  hands  were  at  her  bosom.  Miss 
Pross  looked  up,  saw  what  it  was,  struck  at  it,  struck 
out  a  flash  and  a  crash,  and  stood  alone — blinded  with 
smoke. 

All  this  was  in  a  second.  As  the  smoke  cleared, 
leaving  an  awful  stillness,  it  passed  out  on  the  air,  like 
the  soul  of  Madame  Defarge  whose  body  lay  lifeless  on 
the  ground. 


SCENE    FROM  "THE  RIVALS."     By  RICHARD 
BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

SCENE. — A  dressing-room  in  Mrs.  Malaprop's 
lodgings;  discovered,  Lydia  Languish  sitting  on 
a  sofa,  with  a  book  in  her  hand;  Lucy  as  if  just 
returned  from  a  message,  on  her  R. 

Lucy. — Indeed,  ma'am,  I  traversed  half  the  town  in 
search  of  it;  I  don't  believe  there's  a  circulating 
library  in  Bath  I  ha'n't  been  at. 

Lyd. — And  could  you  not  get  "The  Reward  of 
Constancy"? 

Lucy. — No,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Lyd.— Nor  "The  Fatal  Connexion"? 

Lucy. — No,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Lyd.— Nor  "The  Mistakes  of  the  Heart"? 

Lucy. — Ma'am,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  Mr.  Bull 
said  Miss  Sukey  Saunter  had  just  fetched  it  away. 

Lyd. — Heigho!  Did  you  inquire  for  "The  Delicate 
Distress"? 

Lucy. — Or,  "The  Memoirs  of  Lady  Woodford"? 
Yes,  indeed,  ma'am,  I  asked  everywhere  for  it;  and  I 
might  have  brought  it  from  Mr.  Frederick's,  but  Lady 
Slattern  Lounger,  who  had  just  sent  it  home,  had  so 
soiled  and  dog's-eared  it,  it  wa'n't  fit  for  a  Christian  to 
read. 

Lyd. — Heigho!  Well,  child,  what  have  you  brought 
me? 

Lucy. — Oh,  here,  ma'am!  (Takes  books  from  under 
her  cloak  and  from  her  pockets.)  This  is  "The  Man 
of  Feeling,"  and  this,  "Peregrine  Pickle" — here  are 
"The  Tears  of  Sensibility,"  and  "Humphrey  Clinker." 

Lyd. — Hold!  here's  some  one  coming — quick,  see 
who  it  is. 

378 


By  RICHARD    BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN     379 

Lucy. — Oh,  ma'am,  here  is  Sir  Anthony  Absolute, 
just  coming  home  with  your  aunt. 

Lyd. — They'll  not  come  here;  Lucy,  do  you  watch. 

Lucy. — Oh,  lud,  ma'am!  They  are  both  coming 
upstairs! 

Lyd. — Here,  my  dear  Lucy,  hide  these  books. 
Quick — quick! 

[Enter  Mrs.  Malaprop,  followed  by  Sir  Anthony 
Absolute ;  Lucy  stands,  hiding  books  behind  her, 
until  Sir  Anthony  and  Mrs.  Malaprop  pass,  when 
she  saunters  demurely  off.] 

Mrs.  M. — There,  Sir  Anthony,  there  stands  the 
deliberate  simpleton  who  wants  to  disgrace  her  family 
and  lavish  herself  on  a  fellow  not  worth  a  shilling. 

Lyd. — Madam,  I  thought  you  once 

Mrs.  M. — You  thought,  miss!  I  don't  know  any 
business  you  have  to  think  at  all.  Thought  does  not 
become  a  young  woman.  But  the  point  we  would 
request  of  you  is,  that  you  will  promise  to  forget  this 
fellow; — to  illiterate  him,  I  say,  from  your  memory. 

Lyd. — Ah,  madam!  our  memories  are  independent 
of  our  wills.     It  is  not  so  easy  to  forget. 

Mrs.  M. — But  I  say  it  is,  miss!  There  is  nothing  on 
earth  so  easy  as  to  forget,  if  a  person  chooses  to  set 
about  it.  I'm  sure  I  have  as  much  forgot  your  poor 
dear  uncle  as  if  he  had  never  existed,  and  I  thought  it 
my  duty  so  to  do;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Lydia,  these 
violent  memories  don't  become  a  yoimg  woman. 

Sir  A. — Surely  the  young  lady  does  not  pretend  to 
remember  what  she  is  ordered  to  forget!  Ah,  this 
comes  of  her  reading. 

Lyd. — What  crime,  madam,  have  I  committed,  to  be 
treated  thus? 


38o  SCENE  from  the  "RIVALS" 

Mrs.  M. — Now  don't  attempt  to  extirpate  yourself 
from  the  matter ;  you  know  I  have  proof  controvertible 
of  it.  But  tell  me,  will  you  promise  me  to  do  as  you 
are  bid?  Will  you  take  a  husband  of  your  friends' 
choosing? 

Lyd. — Madam,  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that,  had  I  no 
preference  for  any  one  else,  the  choice  you  have  made 
would  be  my  aversion. 

Mrs.  M. — What  business  have  you,  miss,  with 
preference  and  aversion?  They  don't  become  a  j^oung 
woman ;  and  you  ought  to  know  that,  as  both  always 
wear  off,  'tis  safest,  in  matrimony,  to  begin  with  a 
little  aversion.  I  am  sure  I  hated  your  poor  dear 
uncle  before  marriage  as  if  he'd  been  a  black-a-moor, 
and  yet,  miss,  you  are  sensible  what  a  wife  I  made; 
and,  when  it  pleased  Heaven  to  release  me  from  him, 
'tis  unknown  what  tears  I  shed! 

Sir  A.— He-e-m! 

Mrs.  M. — But,  suppose  we  were  going  to  give  you 
another  choice,  will  you  promise  us  to  give  up  this 
Beverley? 

Lj^'d. — Could  I  belie  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  give 
that  promise,  my  actions  would  certainly  as  far  belie 
my  words. 

Mrs,  M. — Take  yourself  to  your  room!  You  are  fit 
company  for  nothing  but  your  own  ill  humours. 

Lyd. — Willingly,  ma'am;  I  cannot  change  for  the 
worse.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  M. — There's  a  little  intricate  hussy  for  you! 

Sir  A. — It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  ma'am;  all  that 
is  the  natural  consequence  of  teaching  girls  to  read. 
In  my  way  hither,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  observed  your 
niece's  maid  coming  forth  from  a  circulating  library; 


By  RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN     381 

she  had  a  book  in  each  hand — they  were  half-bound 
volumes,  with  marble  covers.  From  that  moment,  I 
guessed  how  full  of  duty  I  should  see  her  mistress! 

Mrs.  M. — Those  are  vile  places,  indeed! 

Sir  A. — Madam,  a  circulating-  library  in  a  town  is  as 
an  evergreen  tree  of  diabolical  knowledge!  It  blos- 
soms through  the  year!  And,  depend  upon  it,  Mrs. 
Malaprop,  that  they  who  are  so  fond  of  handling  the 
leaves,  will  long  for  the  fruit  at  last. 

Mrs.  M. — Fie,  fie.  Sir  Anthony,  you  surely  speak 
laconically. 

(Sir  Anthony  places  a  chair  for  her,  and  another  for 
himself,  bows  to  her  respectfully,  waits  till  she  is 
seated.) 

Sir  A. — Why,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  moderation,  now, 
what  would  you  have  a  woman  know? 

Mrs.  M. — Observe  me.  Sir  Anthony — I  would  by  no 
means  wish  a  daughter  of  mine  to  be  a  progeny  of 
learning.  I  don't  think  so  much  learning  becomes  a 
young  woman.  For  instance — I  would  never  let  her 
meddle  with  Greek,  or  Hebrew,  or  Algebra,  or 
Simony,  or  Fluxions,  or  Paradoxes,  or  such  inflam- 
matory branches  of  learning;  nor  will  it  be  necessary 
for  her  to  handle  any  of  your  mathematical,  astro- 
nomical, diabolical  instruments;  but.  Sir  Anthony,  I 
would  send  her,  at  nine  3'^ears  old,  to  a  boarding- 
school,  in  order  to  learn  a  little  ingenuity  and  artifice. 
Then,  sir,  she  should  have  a  supercilious  knowledge  in 
accounts;  and,  as  she  grew  up,  I  would  have  hei 
instructed  in  geometry,  that  she  might  know  some- 
thing  of  the  contagious  countries;  above  all,  she  should 
be  a  perfect  mistress  of  orthodoxy — that  is,  she  should 
not  mispronounce  and  misspell  words  as  our  young 


382  SCENE  from  the  "RIVALS" 

ladies  of  the  present  day  constantly  do.  This,  Sir 
Anthony,  is  what  I  would  have  a  woman  know;  and  I 
don't  think  there  is  a  superstitious  article  in  it. 

Sir  A. — Well,  well,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  will  dispute 
the  point  no  further  with  you;  though  I  must  confess, 
that  you  are  a  truly  moderate  and  polite  arguer,  for 
almost  every  third  word  you  say  is  on  my  side  of  the 
question.  But  to  the  more  important  point  in  debate 
— you  say  you  have  no  objection  to  my  proposal? 

Mrs.  M. — None,  I  assure  you.  I  am  under  no  posi- 
tive engagement  with  Mr.  Acres;  and  as  Lydia  is  so 
obstinate  against  him,  perhaps  your  son  may  have 
better  success. 

Sir  A. — Well,  madam,  I  will  write  for  the  boy 
directly.  He  knows  not  a  syllable  of  this  yet,  though 
I  have  for  some  time  had  the  proposal  in  my  head. 
He  is  at  present  with  his  regiment. 

Mrs.  M. — We  have  never  seen  your  son.  Sir 
Anthony;  but  I  hope  no  objection  on  his  side. 

Sir  A. — Objection!  Let  him  object,  if  he  dare! 
No,  no,  Mrs.  Malaprop;  Jack  knows  that  the  least 
demur  puts  me  in  a  frenzy  directly.  My  process  was 
always  very  simple.  In  his  younger  days,  'twas, 
"Jack,  do  this."  If  he  demurred,  I  knocked  him 
down,  and,  if  he  grumbled  at  that,  I  always  sent  him 
out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  M. — Ay,  and  the  properest  way,  o'  my  con- 
science! Nothing  is  so  conciliating  to  young  people 
as  severity.  (Both  rise.)  Well,  Sir  Anthony,  I  shall 
give  Mr.  Acres  his  discharge,  and  prepare  Lydia  to 
receive  your  son's  invocations;  and  I  hope  you  will 
represent  her  to  the  captain  as  an  object  not  altogether 
illegible. 


By  RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN     383 

Sir  A. — Madam,  I  will  handle  the  subject  prudently. 
I  must  leave  you.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Malaprop. 
(Both  bow  profoundly,  and  Sir  Anthony  steps  back  as 
if  to  go  out ;  then  returns  to  say :)  And  let  me  beg 
you,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to  enforce  this  matter  roundly  to 
the  girl — take  my  advice,  keep  a  tight  hand.  Good 
morning,  Mrs.  Malaprop.  If  she  rejects  this  proposal, 
clap  her  under  lock  and  key.  Good-morning,  Mrs. 
Malaprop.  And  if  you  were  just  to  let  the  servants 
forget  to  bring  her  dinner  for  three  or  four  days,  you 
can't  conceive  how  she'd  come  about.  Good-morning, 
Mrs.  Malaprop. 

(Bows  formally,  and  exit.) 

Mrs.  M. — Well,  at  any  rate,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get 
her  from  under  my  intuition ;  she  has  somehow  dis- 
covered my  partiality  for  Sir  Lucius  O' Trigger,  Sure, 
Lucy  can't  have  betrayed  me!  No,  the  girl  is  such  a 
simpleton,  I  should  have  made  her  confess  it.  (Calls.) 
Lucy,  Lucy!  Had  she  been  one  of  your  artificial 
ones,  I  should  never  have  trusted  her. 

[Enter  Lucy.] 

Lucy. — Did  you  call,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  M. — Yes,  girl.  Did  you  see  Sir  Lucius  while 
you  were  out? 

Lucy. — No,  indeed,  ma'am,  not  a  glimpse  of  him. 

Mrs.  M. — You  are  sure,  Lucy,  that  you  never  men- 
tioned  

Lucy. — Oh,  gemini!    I'd  sooner  cut  my  tongue  out! 

Mrs.  M. — Well,  don't  let  your  simplicity  be  reposed 
upon. 

Lucy. — No,  ma'am. 

Mrs.   M. — So,  come  to  me  presently,  and  I'll  give 


384  SCENE  from  the  "RIVALS" 

you  another  letter  to  Sir  Lucius;  bu:  mind,  Lucy,  if 
ever  you  betray  what  you  are  intrusted  with, — unless 
it  be  other  people's  secrets  to  me, — you  forfeit  my 
malevolence  for  ever;  and  your  being  a  simpleton 
shall  be  no  excuse  for  your  locality. 


CLEOPATRA'S      BARGE.       From     "Antony     and 
Cleopatra."     By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE. 

M^CENAS.     Welcome  from  Egypt,  sir. 
Enobarbus.     Half  the  heart  of  Caesar,  worthy 
Maecenas! — My  honourable  friend,  Agrippa! 

Agrippa.     Good  Enobarbus! 

Maecenas.  We  have  cause  to  be  glad  that  matters 
are  so  well  digested.     You  stay'd  well  by't  in  Egypt. 

Enobarbus.  Ay,  sir ;  we  did  sleep  day  out  of  coun- 
tenance, and  made  the  night  light  with  drinking. 

Maecenas.  Eight  wild  boars  roasted  whole  at  a 
breakfast,  and  but  twelve  persons  there;    is  this  true? 

Enobarbus.  This  was  but  as  a  fly  by  an  eagle ;  we 
had  much  more  monstrous  matter  of  feast,  which 
worthily  deserved  noting. 

Maecenas.  She's  a  most  triumphant  lady,  if  report 
be  square  to  her. 

Enobarbus.  When  she  first  met  Mark  Antony,  she 
pursed  up  his  heart,  upon  the  river  of  Cydnus. 

Agrippa.  There  she  appeared  indeed,  or  my 
reporter  devised  well  for  her. 

Enobarbus.     I  will  tell  you. 
The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 
Burn'd  on  the  water;  the  poop  was  beaten  gold; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them;    the  oars  were 

silver. 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke  and  made 
The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster. 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.     For  her  own  person, 
It  beggar'd  all  description;  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion — cloth-of-gold  of  tissue — 
O'erpicturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 

385 


386  CLEOPATRA'S    BARGE 

The  fancy  outwork  nature ;  on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  divers-colour'd  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 
And  what  they  undid  did. 

Agrippa.  O,  rare  for  Antony ! 

Enobarbus.     Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes. 
And  made  their  bends  adornings ;  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her,  and  Antony, 
Enthron'd  i'  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air ;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agrippa.  Rare  Egyptian! 

Enobarbus.     Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 
Invited  her  to  supper;  she  replied, 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest. 
Which  she  entreated.     Our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  'No'  woman  heard  speak. 
Being  barber'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast. 
And  for  his  ordinary  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agrippa.  Royal  wench! 

Maecenas.     Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 

Enobarbus.     Never;  he  will  not. 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety;  other  women  cloy 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  387 

The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies. 

Maecenas.     If  beauty,  wisdom,  modesty,  can  settle 
The  heart  of  Antony,  Octavia  is 
A  blessed  lottery  to  him. 

Agrippa.  Let  us  go. — 

Good  Enobarbus,  make  yourself  my  guest 
Whilst  you  abide  here. 

Enobarbus.  Humbly,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  FROM  "CYRANO  DE  BERGERAC." 
Translated  by  Howard  Thayer  Kingsbury.  Reprinted 
with  the  permission  of  the  publishers,  Messrs.  L.  C. 
Page  &  Company.     By  EDMOND  ROSTAND. 

CYRANO.     My  warning  to  the  idlers 
Who  find  the  middle  of  my  face  amusing; — 
And  if  the  joker's  noble,  'tis  my  custom 
To  give  to  him  before  I  let  him  go 
Steel  and  not  leather,  in  front,  and  higher  up. 

De  Guiche  (who  has  come  down  from  the  stage  with 
the  Marquises), 
He  becomes  tiresome! 

The  Vicomte  de  Valvert  (shrugging  his  shoulders). 
He  blows  his  trumpet! 

De  Guiche.     Will  no  one  answer  him? 

The  Vicomte.     No  one?     But  wait! 
I  shall  fling  at  him  now  some  of  my  wit! 
(Advances  towards  Cyrano,  who  is  watching  him,  and 

takes  his  place  in  front  of  him  with  a  silly  air. ) 
You — your  nose  is— nose  is — very  large. 

Cyrano  (gravely).     Very! 

The  Vicomte  (smiling).     Ha! 

Cyrano  (imperturbable).     That  is  all? 

The  Vicomte.  But 

Cyrano.     No,  young  man. 

That  is   somewhat  too   brief.      You    might    say — 
Lord!— 
Many  and  many  a  thing,  changing  your  tone. 
As  for  example  these; — Aggressively: 
"Sir,  had  I  such  a  nose  I'd  cut  it  ofE!" 
Friendly:  "But  it  must  dip  into  your  cup. 
You  should  have  made  a  goblet  tall  to  drink  from. ' ' 
Descriptive:  "  'Tis  a  crag — a  peak — a  cape! 

388 


By  EDMOND   ROSTAND  389 

I  said  a  cape? — 'tis  a  peninsula," 

Inquisitive:  "To  what  use  do  you  put 

This  oblong  sheath ;  is  it  a  writing-case — 

Or  scissors-box?"     Or,  in  a  gracioiis  tone: 

"Are  you  so  fond  of  birds,  that  like  a  father 

You  spend  your  time  and  thought  to  offer  them 

This  roosting  place  to  rest  their  little  feet?" 

Quarrelsome:  "Well,  sir,  when  you  smoke  your  pipe 

Can  the  smoke  issue  from  your  nose,  without 

Some  neighbor  crying,  'The  chimney  is  afire'?" 

Warning:  "Be  careful,  lest  this  weight  drag  down 

Your  head,  and  stretch  you  prostrate  on  the  ground. " — 

Tenderly:  "Have  a  small  umbrella  made, 

For  fear  its  color  fade  out  in  the  sun." 

Pedantic:  "Sir,  only  the  animal 

Called  by  the  poet  Aristophanes 

'  Hippocampelephantocamelos' 

Should  carry  so  much  flesh  and  bone  upon  him!" 

Cavalier:  "Friend,  is  this  peg  in  the  fashion? 

To  hang  one's  hat  on,  it  must  be  convenient." 

Emphatic:  "Magisterial  nose,  no  wind 

Could  give  thee  all  a  cold,  except  the  mistral." 

Dramatic:  "  'Tis  the  Red  Sea  when  it  bleeds!" 

Admiring:  "What  a  sign  for  a  perfumer!" 

Poetic:  Ts't  a  conch;  are  you  a  Triton?" 

Naive:  "When  does  one  visit  this  great  sight?" 

Respectful:  "Let  me,  sir,  pay  my  respects. 

This  might  be  called  fronting  upon  the  street." 

Countrified:  "That's  a  nose  that  is  a  nose! 

A  giant  turnip  or  a  baby  melon ! ' ' 

Or  military:  "Guard  against  cavalry!" 

Practical:  "Will  you  put  it  in  a  raffle? 

It  surely,  sir,  would  be  the  winning  number!" 


390     SCENE  From  "CYRANO  DE  BERGERAC" 

Or  parodying  Pyramus,  with  a  sob : 

"There  is  the  nose  that  ruins  the  symmetry 

Of  its  master's  features;  the  traitor  blushes  for  it." 

My  friend,  that  is  about  what  you'd  have  said 

If  you  had  had  some  learning  or  some  wit ; 

But  wit,  oh !  most  forlorn  of  human  creatures, 

You  never  had  a  bit  of ;  as  for  letters 

You  only  have  the  four  that  spell  out  'Fool' ! 

Moreover,  had  you  owned  the  imagination 

Needed  to  give  you  power,  before  this  hall, 

To  offer  me  these  mad  jests — all  of  them — 

You  would  not  even  have  pronounced  the  quarter 

O'  the  half  of  one's  beginning,  for  I  myself 

Offer  them  to  myself  with  dash  enough, 

But  sufifer  no  one  else  to  say  them  to  me." 

De  Guiche  (trying  to  lead  away  the  dazed  vicomte). 
Vicomte,  leave  off! 

The  Vicomte  (choking).     These  great  and  lofty  airs! 
A  rustic,  who — who — even  wears  no  gloves. 
And  goes  about  without  a  single  ribbon. 

Cyrano.     It  is  my  character  that  I  adorn. 
I  do  not  deck  me  like  a  popinjay; 
But  though  less  foppish,  I  am  better  dressed: 
I  would  not  sally  forth,  through  carelessness, 
With  an  insult  ill  wiped  out,  or  with  my  conscience 
Sallow  with  sleep  still  lingering  in  its  eyes, 
Honor  in  rags,  or  scruples  dressed  in  mourning. 
But  I  go  out  with  all  upon  me  shining, 
With  liberty  and  freedom  for  my  plume. 
Not  a  mere  upright  figure ; — 'tis  my  soul 
That  I  thus  hold  erect  as  if  with  stays. 
And  decked  with  daring  deeds  instead  of  ribbons, 
Twirling  my  wit  as  it  were  my  moustache, 


By  EDMOND   ROSTAND  391 

The  while  I  pass  among  the  crowd,  I  make 
Bold  truths  ring  out  like  spurs. 

The  Vicomte.  But,  sir 

Cyrano.  I  have 

No  gloves? — A  pity! — I  had  just  one  left, 
One  of  a  worn-out  pair! — which  troubled  me! 
I  left  it  recently  in  some  one's  face. 

The  Vicomte.     Knave,  rascal,  booby,  flat-foot,  scum 
o'  the  earth! 

Cyrano   (taking  off  his  hat  and    bowing  as  if   the 
Vicomte  had  just  introduced  himself). 
Ah?     And  I — Cyrano-Savinien-Hercule  de  Bergerac. 
(Laughter). 

The  Vicomte  (in  a  temper).     Buffoon! 

Cyrano  (giving  a  cry  like  one  who  feels  a  sudden 
pain).     Oh! 

The  Vicomte   (who  was  going  off,  turning  about). 
What's  he  saying  now? 

Cyrano  (with  grimaces  of  pain).     I  must 
Shake  it,  because  it  falls  asleep — the  fault 
Of  leaving  it  long  idle — 

The  Vicomte.  What's  the  matter? 

Cyrano.     My  sword-blade  tingles ! 

The  Vicomte  (drawing  his  own  sword).     Very  well, 
come  on! 

Cyrano.     I  shall  give  you  a  charming  little  stroke. 

The  Vicomte  (with  disdain).     Poet! — 

Cyrano.     A  poet,  yes!  and  such  a  one. 
That,  while  I  fence  with  you,  I'll  improvise 
A  ballade  for  you. 

The  Vicomte.  A  ballade? 

Cyrano.  I  suppose 

You  do  not  e'en  imagine  what  that  is? 


392     SCENE  From  "CYRANO  DE  BERGERAC" 
The  Vicomte.     But 


Cyrano  (as  if  reciting  a  lesson). 

The  ballade,  then,  is  made  up  of  three  stanzas, 
Of  eight  lines 

The  Vicomte  (shuffling  his  feet).     Oh! 

Cyrano  (continuing).     And  a  refrain  of  four. 

The  Vicomte.     You 

Cyrano.  I'll  make  one  and  fight  you,  both  at  once. 
And  at  the  last  verse  touch  you,  sir. 

The  Vicomte.  No ! 

Cyrano.  No? 

The  ballade  of  Monsieur  de  Bergerac's  duel 
At  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne,  with  a  booby. 

The  Vicomte.     What  is  that,  if  you  please? 

Cyrano.  That  is  the  title. 

The  Hall  (excited  to  the  highest  pitch). 
In  place! — No  noise! — In  line! — This  is  amusing. 

(Tableau.  A  circle  of  curious  onlookers  in  the  par- 
terre, the  Marquises  and  the  Officers  mixed  in  with 
the  Tradesmen  and  common  people.  The  Pages 
climb  on  people's  shoulders  to  see  better.  All  the 
women  stand  up  in  the  boxes.  To  the  right  De  Guiche 
and  his  gentlemen.  To  the  left  Le  Bret,  Ragueneau, 
Cuigy,  etc.) 

Cyrano  (closing  his  eyes  for  a  moment). 
Wait,  let  me  choose  my  rhymes — I  have  them  now : 

My  hat  I  toss  lightly  away ; 
From  my  shoulders  I  slowly  let  fall 
The  cloak  which  conceals  my  array. 
And  my  sword  from  my  scabbard  I  call, 
Like  C61adon,  graceful  and  tall, 


By  EDMOND   ROSTAND  393 

Like  Scaramouche,  quick  hand  and  brain, — 
And  I  warn  you,  my  friend,  once  for  all, 
I  shall  thrust  when  I  end  the  refrain. 
(The  swords  meet.) 

You  were  rash  thus  to  join  in  the  fray; 
Like  a  fowl  I  shall  carve  you  up  small. 
Your  ribs,  'neath  your  doublet  so  gay, 
Your  breast,  where  the  blue  ribbons  fall. 
Ding-dong!  ring  your  bright  trappings  all; 
My  point  flits  like  a  fly  on  the  pane. 
As  I  clearly  announce  to  the  hall 
I  shall  thrust  when  I  end  the  refrain. 

I  need  one  more  rhyme  for  "array" — 
You  give  ground,  you  turn  white  as  the  wall, — 
And  so  lend  me  the  word  "runaway," 
There !  you  have  let  your  point  fall 
As  I  parry  your  best  lunge  of  all ; 
I  begin  a  new  line,  the  end's  plain, 
Your  skewer  hold  tight,  lest  it  fall. 
I  shall  thrust  when  I  end  the  refrain. 
(Announces  solemnly.) 

REFRAIN. 

Prince,  on  the  Lord  you  must  call! 

I  gain  ground,  I  advance  once  again, 

I  feint,  I  lunge.     (Lunging.)      There!  that  is  all! 

(The  Vicomte  staggers.     Cyrano  salutes.) 

For  I  thrust  as  I  end  the  refrain. 

(Shouts.  Applause  in  the  boxes.  Flowers  and 
handkerchiefs  are  thrown.  The  officers  surround 
Cyrano  and  congratulate  him.  Ragueneau  dances 
with  enthusiasm.  Le  Bret  is  dizzy  with  joy.  The 
Vicomte's  friends  hold  him  up  and  lead  him  away.) 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  SYDNEY  CARTON. 
From  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities."  By  CHARLES 
DICKENS. 

ALONG  the  Paris  streets,  the  death-carts  rumble, 
hollow  and  harsh.  Six  tumbrils  carry  the  day's 
wine  to  La  Guillotine.  All  the  devouring  and  insa- 
tiate Monsters  imagined  since  imagination  could 
record  itself,  are  fused  in  the  one  realisation.  Guillo- 
tine.    Changeless  and  hopeless,  the  tumbrils  roll  along. 

As  the  sombre  wheels  of  the  six  carts  go  round,  they 
seem  to  plough  up  a  long  crooked  furrow  among  the 
populace  in  the  streets. 

Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some  observe  these 
things,  and  all  things  on  their  last  roadside,  with  an 
impassive  stare;  others  with  a  lingering  interest  in  the 
ways  of  life  and  men.  Some,  seated  with  drooping 
heads,  are  sunk  in  silent  despair.  Several  close  their 
eyes,  and  think,  or  try  to  get  their  straying  thoughts 
together.  Only  one,  and  he  a  miserable  creature  of  a 
crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered  and  made  drunk  by 
horror  that  he  sings,  and  tries  to  dance.  Not  one  of 
the  whole  number  appeals,  by  look  or  gesture,  to  the 
pity  of  the  people. 

There  is  a  guard  of  sundry  horsemen  riding  abreast 
of  the  tumbrils,  and  faces  are  often  turned  up  to  some 
of  them  and  they  are  asked  some  question.  It  would 
seem  to  be  always  the  same  question,  for  it  is  always 
followed  by  a  press  of  people  towards  the  third  cart. 
The  horsemen  abreast  of  that  cart,  frequently  point 
out  one  man  in  it  with  their  swords.  The  leading 
curiosity  is  to  know  which  is  he ;  he  stands  at  the  back  of 
the  tumbril,  with  his  head  bent  down,  to  converse  with 
a  mere  girl  who  sits  on  the  side  of  the  cart,  and  who 

394 


By  CHARLES    DICKENS  395 

holds  his  hand.  He  has  no  curiosity  or  care  for  the 
scene  about  him,  and  always  speaks  to  the  girl. 

The  clocks  are  on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  the  furrow 
ploughed  among  the  populace  is  turning  round,  to 
come  on  into  the  place  of  execution,  and  end.  The 
ridges  thrown  to  this  side  and  to  that,  now  crumble  in 
and  close  behind  the  last  plough  as  it  passes  on,  for 
all  are  following  to  the  Guillotine.  In  front  of  it, 
seated  in  chairs  as  in  a  garden  of  public  diversion,  are 
a  number  of  women,  busily  knitting.  On  one  of  the 
foremost  chairs,  stands  The  Vengeance,  looking  about 
for  her  friend. 

"Therese!"  she  cries,  in  her  shrill  tones.  "Who  has 
seen  her?     Therese  Defarge!" 

"She  never  missed  before,"  says  a  knitting- woman 
of  the  sisterhood. 

"No;  nor  will  she  miss  now,"  cries  The  Vengeance, 
petulantly.     "Therese." 

"Louder,"  the  woman  recommends. 

Ay !  Louder,  Vengeance,  much  louder,  and  still  she 
will  scarcely  hear  thee.  Louder  yet,  Vengeance,  with  a 
little  oath  or  so  added,  and  yet  it  will  hardly  bring  her. 

"Bad  Fortune!  and  here  are  the  tumbrils!  And 
Evr6monde  will  be  despatched  in  a  wink,  and  she  not 
here!  See  her  knitting  in  my  hand,  and  her  empty 
chair  ready  for  her.  I  cry  with  vexation  and  disap- 
pointment!" 

As  The  Vengeance  descends  from  her  elevation,  the 
tumbrils  begin  to  discharge  their  loads.  The  ministers 
of  Sainte  Guillotine  are  robed  and  ready.  Crash! — 
ahead  is  held  up,  and  the  knitting- women,  who  scarcely 
lifted  their  eyes  to  look  at  it  a  moment  ago  when  it 
could  think  and  speak,  count  One. 


396     The  EXECUTION  of  SYDNEY   CARTON 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on;  the  third 
comes  up.  Crash! — And  the  knitting-women,  never 
faltering  or  pausing  in  their  work,  count  Two. 

The  supposed  Evremonde  descends,  and  the  seam- 
stress is  lifted  out  next  after  him.  He  has  not  relin- 
quished her  patient  hand  in  getting  her  out,  but  still 
holds  it  as  he  promised.  He  gently  places  her  with  her 
back  to  the  crashing  engine  that  constantly  whirs  up 
and  falls,  and  she  looks  into  his  face  and  thanks  him. 

"But  for  you,  dear  stranger,  I  should  not  be  so 
composed,  for  I  am  naturally  a  ppor  little  thing,  faint 
of  heart;  nor  should  I  have  been  able  to  raise  my 
thoughts  to  Him  who  was  put  to  death,  that  we  might 
have  hope  and  comfort  here  to-day.  I  think  you  were 
sent  to  me  by  Heaven." 

"Or  you  to  me,"  says  Sydney  Carton.  "Keep  your 
eyes  upon  me,  dear  child,  and  mind  no  other  object." 

"I  mind  nothing  while  I  hold  your  hand.  I  shall 
mind  nothing  when  I  let  it  go,  if  they  are  rapid. ' ' 

' '  They  will  be  rapid.     Fear  not ! " 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast-thinning  throng  of  victims, 
but  they  speak  as  if  they  were  alone.  Eye  to  eye, 
voice  to  voice,  hand  to  hand,  heart  to  heart,  these  two 
children  of  the  Universal  Mother,  else  so  wide  apart 
and  differing,  have  come  together  on  the  dark  high- 
way, to  repair  home  together  and  to  rest  in  her  bosom. 

"Brave  and  generous  friend,  will  you  let  me  ask  you 
one  last  question?  I  am  very  ignorant,  and  it  troubles 
me — just  a  little." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"I  have  a  cousin,  an  only  relative  and  orphan,  like 
myself,  whom  I  love  very  dearly.  She  is  five  years 
younger  than  I,  and  she  lives  in  a  farmer's  house  in 


By  CHARLES    DICKENS  397 

the  south  country.  Poverty  parted  us,  and  she  knows 
nothing  of  my  fate — for  I  cannot  write — and  if  I  could, 
how  should  I  tell  her!     It  is  better  as  it  is." 

"Yes,  yes;  better  as  it  is." 

"What  I  have  been  thinking  as  we  came  along,  and 
what  I  am  still  thinking  now,  as  I  look  into  your  kind, 
strong  face  which  gives  me  so  much  support,  is  this: — 
If  the  Republic  really  does  good  to  the  poor,  and  they 
come  to  be  less  hungry,  and  in  all  ways  to  suffer  less, 
she  may  live  a  long  time ;  she  may  even  live  to  be  old. 

"What  then,  my  gentle  sister?" 

"Do  you  think  that  it  will  seem  long  to  me,  while  I 
wait  for  her  in  the  better  land,  where  I  trust  both  you 
and  I  will  be  mercifully  sheltered?" 

"It  cannot  be,  my  child;  there  is  no  Time  there,  and 
no  trouble  there." 

"You  comfort  me  so  much!  I  am  so  ignorant.  Am 
I  to  kiss  you  now?     Is  the  moment  come?" 

"Yes." 

She  kisses  his  lips;  he  kisses  hers;  they  solemnly 
bless  each  other.  The  spare  hand  does  not  tremble  as 
he  releases  it ;  nothing  worse  than  a  sweet,  bright  con- 
stancy is  in  the  patient  face.  She  goes  next  before 
him — is  gone ;  the  knitting-women  count  Twenty-two. 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord: 
he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet 
shall  he  live :  and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in 
me,  shall  never  die. ' ' 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of 
many  faces,  the  pressing  on  of  many  footsteps  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd,  so  that  it  swells  forward  in  a 
mass,  like  one  great  heave  of  water,  all  flashes 
away.     Twenty-three. 


THE  BOAT  RACE.  From  "Jack  Hall;  or,  The 
School  Days  of  an  American  Boy. "  Copyright,  1893, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  with  permis- 
sion.    By  ROBERT  GRANT. 

THE  race  had  been  fixed  for  ten  o'clock.  The 
lake  was  reported  to  be  like  a  mirror.  Jack  ate 
a  fairly  substantial  breakfast  at  eight,  and  at  Carlisle's 
suggestion  remained  quietly  until  nine  in  his  own 
room,  from  which  he  emerged  in  an  overcoat  worn 
over  his  boating  costume,  a  crimson  and  black  striped 
jersey  and  crimson  handkerchief,  and  a  nondescript 
pair  of  trousers.  Haseltine  was  waiting  before  the 
door  with  a  trap  so  as  to  spare  his  champion  the 
unnecessary  fatigue  of  a  walk.  Hasy  announced  that 
the  Doctor  and  Tom  Bonsall  had  already  gone  down 
to  the  boat-house. 

Every  boy  who  possessed  a  boat  was  out  in  it,  and 
the  water  was  dotted  with  every  variety  of  craft  from  a 
Rob  Roy  canoe  to  the  steam  launch  recently  presented 
to  the  school  by  a  fond  graduate,  which  was  occupied 
by  Mrs.  Meredith,  the  judges,  and  some  of  the  prin- 
cipal guests.  The  launch  flew  proudly  the  school 
colors,  blue  and  white,  which  properly  were  worn 
to-day  only  by  the  Doctor,  who  was  just  stepping  from 
the  float  into  his  shell  amid  great  applause  as  Jack 
alighted  from  the  vehicle.  The  stand,  which  had  been 
erected  a  few  rods  from  the  boat-house,  and  which  was 
just  opposite  to  the  finish,  was  crowded  with  visitors. 
It  was  a  scene  calculated  to  quicken  the  pulses  of  any 
one  with  a  spark  of  enthusiasm.  As  for  Jack,  when 
he  started  to  strip  off  his  overcoat  he  was  trembling  all 
over,  and  could  feel  his  heart  going  like  a  trip-hammer. 

The  course  was  to  be  two  miles  in  all;  straight  away 

398 


By  ROBERT   GRANT  399 

for  a  mile  to  a  flagged  buoy  and  back  again  to  another 
flagged  buoy  abreast  of  the  boat-house.  Two  of  the 
first  class  were  to  be  judges,  a  third  to  be  judge  at 
the  further  buoy,  and  Mr.  Percy  had  consented  to  act 
as  referee  in  case  of  any  dispute.  Stoddard,  of  the 
second  class,  was  to  send  the  contestants  off  by  firing 
a  pistol  at  the  proper  moment. 

Jack  was  the  last  of  the  three  to  get  into  his  boat. 

"Is  everything  all  right?"  whispered  Carlisle,  who 
was  bending  over  him  holding  the  shell  at  the  float. 
"Don't  spurt  until  you  have  to,  remember." 

"O.  K.,"  answered  our  hero. 

Carlisle  shoved  the  shell  out.  Jack  paddled  a  few 
rods  and  then  shot  off  at  a  comfortable  pace  up  the 
lake.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  Tom  Bonsall,  in  a  white 
shirt  with  a  purple  star  on  its  bosom,  and  a  purple  hand- 
kerchief bound  stylishly  across  his  forehead,  resting  on 
his  oars  and  watching  him.  Jack  had  no  idea  of  wast- 
ing his  energies  by  showing  off.  He  had  time  just  to 
warm  himself  up  a  bit  before  the  signal  to  get  into  line. 

He  had  scarcely  turned  to  come  back  when  the  pis- 
tol sounded,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  the  starting 
line  the  Doctor  and  Tom  were  in  position.  Accord- 
ing to  the  lots  drawn  that  morning  Jack  was  to  be  in 
the  middle,  with  Tom  inside;  so  he  paddled  in 
between  them.  Stoddard  spent  a  few  moments  in 
making  first  one  and  then  another  retire  or  move  for- 
ward a  few  inches,  then  asked  sharply: 

"Are  you  ready?" 

Jack  felt  almost  beside  himself  in  the  short  interval 
that  preceded  the  discharge,  and  his  throat  seemed 
parched. 

Crack! 


400  The  BOAT   RACE 

The  three  pairs  of  blades  flashed  through  the  water 
at  the  same  moment,  and  neither  boat  seemed  to  gain 
any  decided  advantage  as  they  bounded  away  from  the 
buoy  amid  the  cheers  of  everybody. 

"Hurrah  for  the  Doctor!" 

"Hit  her  up,  Tom!" 

"Bully  for  you,  Jack!" 

It  took  our  hero  some  minutes  to  get  his  head  clear 
enough  to  be  able  to  perceive  what  he  was  doing,  as 
compared  with  his  opponents.  He  rowed  on  and  on 
excitedly,  without  realizing  anything.  He  was  con- 
scious of  rowing  a  rather  quicker  and  more  jerky 
stroke  than  usual.  His  eyes  were  misty  and  his  throat 
drier  than  ever.  The  cheers  of  the  spectators  were 
growing  fainter,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  time  to  settle 
down  to  work.  He  made  a  gulp  and  looked  about 
him.  On  his  right  was  Tom,  pulling  like  grim  death, 
at  a  rate  which  seemed  to  lift  his  boat  almost  out  of 
the  water.  The  stern  of  Tom's  shell  was  nearly  on  a 
level  with  the  back  sweep  of  his  own  oars,  which 
showed  plainly  that  Tom  had  not  far  from  half  a 
length's  lead  on  him.  On  the  other  side  was  the  Doc- 
tor in  his  blue  and  white  jersey,  rowing  steadily  and 
smoothly  as  clock-work,  neck  and  neck  with  him. 

"Softly  now,"  said  Jack  to  himself.  "This  is  too 
fast  company  for  me.  If  Tom  can  keep  this  racket  up 
he'll  get  there  first.  My  only  chance  is  to  let  up  a 
bit." 

They  were  too  far  off  now  for  the  shouts  to  reach 
them.  Not  a  sound  was  audible  to  Jack  but  the  slight 
plashing  of  the  oars  in  the  water.  Over  his  shoulder, 
Tom  was  struggling  onward,  and  abreast  of  him,  pull- 
ing with  apparently  no  effort  whatever  and  watching 


By  ROBERT   GRANT  401 

alertly  the  movements  of  his  rivals,  could  be  seen  the 
dangerous  Doctor.  But  Jack,  too,  felt  calm  now  and 
fresher  than  when  he  started.  He  can  even  put  a  little 
more  back  muscle  into  his  stroke,  he  thinks,  as  he 
feels  his  grip  tighten  on  the  oars  with  the  consciousness 
of  growing  vigor.  A  few  more  sweeps  like  that  will 
close  up  the  gap  between  his  out-rigger  and  Tom's. 

But  why  does  not  the  Doctor  bend  to  his  work  to 
keep  him  company?  The  Doctor  is  palling  a  waiting 
race,  evidently,  and  is  going  to  let  his  rivals  blow 
themselves  against  one  another  before  he  has  an  oar 
in  the  fight.  Otherwise,  surely  he  would  not  have  let 
Jack  forge  ahead  so  that  he  has  to  look  round  the 
corner,  now,  in  order  to  watch  him.  The  doctor  is  an 
old  hand,  and  has  seen  many  a  race  lost  by  too  lively 
a  pace  at  the  start. 

"Steady,"  reflects  Jack,  again  trying  to  keep  cool  as 
he  realizes  that  he  has  a  lead  over  his  most  dangerous 
enemy.  "Don't  hit  her  up  too  lively."  He  appre- 
ciates the  Doctor's  tactics,  and  is  not  going  to  fall  into 
the  trap  if  he  can  help  it,  even  though  Tom,  spurred  on 
by  swift  pursuit,  has  put  on  more  steam  and  is  holding 
his  own  bravely.  They  are  not  far  from  the  flagged 
buoy  now.  Jack  can  see  it  distinctly,  and  has  in  mind 
that  he  must  be  careful  to  avoid  a  foul.  They  are 
likely  to  pass  it  in  the  order  in  which  they  are  at  pres- 
ent, about  half  a  length  apart,  and  Tom  has  the  inside 
water.  All  three  are  pulling  like  well-oiled  machines, 
and  not  a  symptom  of  distress  comes  from  either  boat. 

Tom  turns  first,  and  very  cleverly  too,  close  to  the 
buoy  so  as  to  give  no  one  a  chance  to  cut  in,  and  starts 
for  home,  but  the  others  are  at  his  heels  and  right 
after  him.     Jack  in  passing  catches  the  eye  of  Samp- 


402  The  BOAT    RACE 

son,  the  judge  at  the  turn,  and  feels  cool  enough  to  nod 
in  friendly  fashion.  Half  way,  and  he  is  still  fresh  as 
ever!  He  would  like  to  try  to  press  Tom,  but  for  fear 
of  the  cool,  deliberate  Doctor  barely  astern.  He 
remembers  Carlisle's  caution  not  to  spurt  until  he  has 
to,  and  only  bends  strongly  and  firml)''  to  his  accus- 
tomed stroke,  which,  however,  is  losing  him  no  ground, 
to  say  the  least.  Tom  is  evidently  uneasy  and  is  work- 
ing to  shake  him  off. 

Ah,  there !  The  Doctor  is  waking  up  at  last,  and  is 
putting  in  some  stronger  work;  nothing  very  stren- 
uous, but  lively  enough  to  warn  Jack  that  he  must 
have  his  head  about  him  if  he  hopes  to  keep  his  lead  to 
the  end.  One  thing  is  certain  now:  Tom  will  have  to 
row  faster  or  give  in;  after  which  reflection  Jack 
slightly  quickens  his  stroke,  and  without  actually 
spurting- bends  every  muscle.  Now  or  never!  They 
are  only  half  a  mile  from  home,  and  a  waiting  race 
may  be  delayed  too  long.  Now  or  never!  Will  Tom 
be  able  to  quicken  his  pace?  That  is  the  question. 
He  does  quicken  it,  so  much  so  that  he  is  rowing 
desperately  fast  with  short  lightning  strokes,  which 
come  so  rapidly  that  it  is  difficult  to  note  the  interval 
between  them.  Brilliant,  magnificent!  "but,"  as 
some  one  who  knew  said  of  the  famous  charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade,  "it  is  not  war."  It  is  slaughter,  my 
dear  Tom,  and  simple  ruination.  You  cannot  keep  it 
up.  Even  as  it  is,  in  spite  of  your  splendid  pyrotech- 
nics, Jack's  long  steady  swing  is  holding  you,  and  what 
is  more,  pressing  you,  into  the  bargain. 

"Steady  now,"  murmurs  Jack,  between  his  teeth. 
He  knows  from  Tom's  exertions  that  his  rival  is  spurt- 
ing and  putting  all  his  vitality  into  his  pace.     A  ter- 


By  ROBERT   GRANT  403 

rible  moment  of  sustained  effort  follows,  at  the  end  of 
which  Tom  lashes  the  air  with  a  misplaced  stroke,  the 
water  splashes,  and  our  hero's  shell,  surging  for- 
ward, comes  on  a  level  with  its  forerunner,  battles 
with  it  for  twenty  yards  of  struggling  agony  on  the 
part  of  the  doomed  champion,  and  leaps  to  the  front 
at  last.  Jack  is  ahead,  and  only  a  quarter  of  a>  mile 
left! 

Tom  is  beaten.  And  now  for  the  Doctor.  Where  is 
lie?  What  is  he  doing?  No  need  to  ask  that  question, 
friend  Jack,  if  you  lift  your  eyes.  Tom  is  beaten,  not 
only  by  you  but  by  the  Doctor  also ;  and  though  your 
most  dreaded  enemy  is  still  in  your  rear,  the  nose  of 
his  boat  is  almost  on  a  line  with  your  stern,  and  he  is 
quickening  at  every  stroke. 

What  a  babel  of  cheers  and  exclamations  bursts  forth 
from  the  waving,  transported  crowd  along  the  bank! 
They  begin  to  know  who  is  who  now,  and  can  tell 
beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  the  crimson  and 
black  and  the  blue  and  white  are  having  a  noble  strug- 
gle for  the  lead. 

"Jack  Hall  is  ahead!  Hall!  Hall!  No,  he  isn't! 
Hit  her  up.  Doctor!  Hurrah  for  Hall!  Hurrah  for 
the  Doctor !  Tom,  where  are  you !  Bonsall !  Bonsall ! 
H-A-L-L!     H-A-L-L!" 

The  tumult  is  maddening.  Can  it  be  possible  that 
Jack  Hall,  who,  on  the  whole,  before  the  race,  was 
rated  lowest  of  the  three,  is  going  to  break  the  school 
record  and  beat  the  invincible  Doctor  in  one  and  the 
same  breath?  It  looks  like  it,  if  he  can  hold  his  own 
for  two  hundred  yards  more.  It  looks  like  it,  decid- 
edly, and  there  is  plenty  of  clear  water  still  between 
the  winning  goal  and  the  foremost  shell ;  and  see,  the 


404  The  BOAT    RACE 

Doctor  is  spurting-  with  a  vengeance — look! — look! — 
and  is  he  not  gaining,  too? 

The  Doctor  has  crept  up,  no  doubt  about  that.  The 
nose  of  his  shell  is  now  well  beyond  Jack's  out-rigger, 
and  he  is  speeding  like  the  wind.  Jack  is  feeling  ter- 
ribly tired,  his  throat  that  he  thought  parched  at  the 
start  burns  as  if  it  were  on  fire,  and  his  eyes  seem 
ready  to  start  out  of  his  head.  His  crimson  handker- 
chief has  fallen  over  his  eyes,  but  he  gives  himself  a 
shake  and  it  falls  to  his  neck,  leaving  his  brow  refresh- 
ingly free.  He  has  vanquished  Tom  anyway.  So 
much  to  be  thankful  for.  Tom  is  a  length  behind, 
struggling  still,  like  the  man  he  is,  but  hopelessly  van- 
quished all  the  same.  Jack  turns  his  head,  remember- 
ing to  keep  cool  if  he  can,  and  sights  the  goal.  Not 
more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  left!  The 
reverberating  yells  and  cheers  are  setting  his  blood 
ablaze.  He  can  scarcely  see,  but  he  knows  he  has  not 
spurted  yet.  He  is  neck  and  neck  with  the  Doctor 
now.     There  can  be  nothing  to  choose  between  them. 

The  time  has  come  now,  our  hero  knows,  to  put  in 
any  spurt  that  is  left  in  him.  Gripping  the  handles  of 
his  oars  like  a  vise  and  shutting  his  eyes,  Jack  throws 
all  his  vital  powers  into  one  grand  effort,  which,  to  his 
supreme  happiness,  is  answered  by  a  great  roar  from 
the  shore. 

"Hall!  Hall!  Hurrah!  Nobly  done,  Hall!  Hall 
wins!     Row,  Doctor,   row!" 

The  Doctor  is  rowing  with  all  his  might,  you  may  be 
sure  of  that ;  but  he  has  not  counted  on  the  staying 
powers  of  his  adversary.  He  can  do  no  more  than  he 
is  doing,  and  this  final  spurt  of  Jack's,  exhausting  as  it 
must  have  been  were  the  race  to  be  a  quarter  of  a 


By  ROBERT   GRANT  405 

mile  longer,  will  carry  the  day.  The  Doctor  can 
hardly  catch  him  now. 

Jack  has  opened  his  eyes  and  takes  in  the  situation. 
The  din  of  applause  is  tremendous.  If  he  can  hold 
out  for  six  strokes  more,  the  victory  is  his. 

One  stroke-. 

"Hall!     Hall!"     "Go  it,  Doctor!" 

Two  strokes, 

"Jack!"     "Doctor,  go  it!"     "Tom,  where  are  you?" 

"Tom's  in  the  soup!" 

Three  strokes. 

"H-A-L-L!"     "Doctor!" 

Four  strokes. 

"Hall  wins!  Hall  wins."  "Jack,  your  mother's 
looking  at  you!" 

Five  strokes. 

"Hurrah!  Huzzah!  Hurrah!  Hall!  Hall! 
Doctor!     Doctor!" 

Six  strokes. 

Panting,  breathless,  and  bewildered  by  the  deafening 
cheers.  Jack  is  rnade  aware  only  by  the  sight  of  the 
flagged  buoy  shooting  past  his  oar-blade  that  he  has 
won  the  race  and  is  champion  of  Utopia. 


SCENES      FROM      "KING      HENRY     V."       By 
WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE. 

PROLOGUE. 

[Enter  Chorus.] 

CHORUS.     O  for  a  Muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 
The  brightest  heaven  of  invention, 
A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 
And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene ! 
Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself, 
Assume  the  port  of  Mars;  and  at  his  heels, 
Leash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword,  and  fire 
Crouch  for  employment.     But  pardon,  gentles  all, 
The  flat  unraised  spirit  that  hath  dar'd 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object :  can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France?  or  may  we  cram 
Within  this  wooden  O  the  very  casques 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt? 
O,  pardon !  since  a  crooked  figure  may 
Attest  in  little  place  a  million; 
And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  accompt, 
On  your  imaginary  forces  work. 
Suppose  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls 
Are  now  confin'd  two  mighty  monarchies. 
Whose  high-upreared  and  abutting  fronts 
The  perilous,  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder. 
Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts, 
Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man, 
And  make  imaginary  puissance: 
Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see  them 
Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  earth; 
For  'tis  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  our  kings, 

406 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  407 

Carry  them  here  and  there,  jumping  o'er  times, 
Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 
Into  an  hour-glass;  for  the  which  supply. 
Admit  me  Chorus  to  this  history; 
Who  prologue-like  your  humble  patience  pray, 
Gently  to  hear,  kindly  to  judge,  our  play.  .  .  . 

ACT  I.     SCENE   II.     LONDON. 
The  Presence  Chamber. 

[Enter  King  Henry,  Gloucester,  Bedford,  Exeter, 
Warwick,  Westmoreland  and  Attendants.] 

King  Henry.     Where  is  my  gracious  Lord  of  Can- 
terbury? 
Exeter.     Not  here  in  presence. 
King  Henry^  Send  for  him,  good  uncle. 

[Enter  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  the  Bishop 

of  Ely.] 

Canterbury.     God  and  his  angels  guard  your  sacred 
throne. 
And  make  you  long  become  it! 

King  Henry.  Sure,  we  thank  you. 

My  learned  lord,  we  pray  you  to  proceed 
And  justly  and  religiously  unfold 
Why  the  law  Salique  that  they  have  in  France 
Or  should,  or  should  not,  bar  us  in  our  claim.   .  .  . 
Take  heed  how  you  impawn  our  person. 
How  you  awake  our  sleeping  sword  of  war: 
We  charge  you,  in  the  name  of  God,  take  heed; 

For  never  two  such  kingdoms  did  contend 
Without  much  fall  of  blood.   .  .   . 
Canterbury.     There  is  no  bar 


4o8       SCENES   From    "KING    HENRY   V." 

To  make  against  j^our  highness'  claim  to  France 
But  this,  which  they  produce  from  Pharamond, — 
'No  woman  shall  succeed  in  Salique  land' ; 
Which  Salique  land  the  French  unjustly  gloze 
To  be  the  realm  of  France,  and  Pharamond 
The  founder  of  this  law  and  female  bar. 
Yet  their  own  authors  faithfully  affirm 
That  the  land  Salique  is  in  Germany, 
Between  the  floods  of  Sala  and  of  Elbe ;  .  .  . 
Then  doth  it  well  appear  the  Salique  law 
Was  not  devised  for  the  realm  of  France : 
Nor  did  the  French  possess  the  Salique  land 
Until  four  hundred  one  and  twenty  years 
After  defunction  of  King  Pharamond, 
Idly  suppos'd  the  founder  of  this  law.  .   .   . 

King  Henry.     May  I  with  right  and  conscience  make 
this  claim? 

Canterbury.      The  sin  upon    my  head,   dread   sov- 
ereign ! 
For  in  the  book  of  Numbers  is  it  writ. 
When  the  man  dies,  let  the  inheritance 
Descend  unto  the  daughter.     Gracious  lord, 
Stand  for  your  own ;  unwind  your  bloody  flag.   .   .   . 

King  Henry.     Call  in  the  messengers  sent  from  the 
Dauphin.  [Exeunt  some  Attendants. 

[Enter  Ambassadors  of  France.] 

Now  are  we  well  prepar'd  to  know  the  pleasure 
Of  our  fair  cousin  Dauphin ;  for  we  hear 
Your  greeting  is  from  him,  not  from  the  king. 

First  Ambassador.      May't  please  your  majesty  to 
give  us  leave 
Freely  to  render  what  we  have  in  charge ; 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  409 

Or  shall  we  sparingly  show  you  far  off 
The  Dauphin's  meaning  and  our  embassy? 

King  Henry.      We  are  no  tyrant,  but  a  Christian 
king, 
Unto  whose  grace  our  passion  is  as  subject 
As  our  wretches  fetter'd  in  our  prisons:  .  .   . 

First  Ambassador.  Thus  then,  in  few. 

Your  highness,  lately  sending  into  France, 
Did  claim  some  certain  dukedoms,  in  the  right 
Of  your  great  predecessor,  King  Edward  the  Third. 
In  answer  of  which  claim,  the  prince  our  master 
Says  that  you  savour  too  much  of  your  youth, 
And  bids  you  be  advis'd  there's  nought  in  France 
That  can  be  with  a  nimble  galliard  won ; 
You  cannot  revel  into  dukedoms  there. 
He  therefore  sends  you,  meeter  for  your  spirit, 
This  tun  of  treasure;  and,  in  lieu  of  this. 
Desires  you  let  the  dukedoms  that  you  claim 
Hear  no  more  of  you.     This  the  Dauphin  speaks. 

King  Henry.     What  treasure,  uncle? 

Exeter.  Tennis-balls,  my  liege. 

King  Henry.     We  are  glad  the  Dauphin  is  so  pleas- 
ant with  us; 
His  present  and  your  pains  we  thank  you  for. 
When  we  have  match'd  our  rackets  to  these  balls, 
We  will,  in  France,  by  God's  grace,  play  a  set 
Shall  strike  his  father's  crown  into  the  hazard.   .   .  . 
And  we  understand  him  well, 
How  he  comes  o'er  us  with  our  wilder  days. 
Not  measuring  what  use  we  made  of  them.  .  .  . 
But  tell  the  Dauphin  I  will  keep  my  state. 
Be  like  a  king,  and  show  my  sail  of  greatness 
When  I  do  rouse  me  in  my  throne  of  France : 


410       SCENES   From    "KING   HENRY   V." 

Tell  you  the  Dauphin  I  am  coming  on, 
To  venge  me  as  I  may,  and  to  put  forth 
My  rightful  hand  in  a  well-hallow'd  cause. 

Fare  you  well.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II.     PROLOGUE. 

[Enter  Chorus.] 

Chorus.     Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on  fire, 
And  silken  dalliance  in  the  wardrobe  lies: 
Now  thrive  the  armourers,  and  honour's  thought 
Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man.   .   .   . 
The  king  is  set  from  London ;  and  the  scene 
Is  now  transported,  gentles,  to  Southampton ; 
There  is  the  playhouse  now,  there  must  you  sit: 
And  thence  to  France  shall  we  convey  you  safe, 
And  bring  you  back,  charming  the  narrow  seas 
To  give  you  gentle  pass ;  for,  if  we  may, 
We'll  not  offend  one  stomach  with  our  play. 
But,  till  the  king  come  forth,  and  not  till  then, 
Unto  Southampton  do  we  shift  our  scene.  .  .  . 

SCENE  n. 

Southampton.     A  Council-chamber. 

[Enter  Exeter,  Bedford,  and  Westmoreland.] 

Bedford.     Fore  God,  his  grace  is  bold,  to  trust  these 

traitors. 
Exeter.     They  shall  be  apprehended  by  and  by.  .   .  . 
Bedford.     The  king  hath  note  of  all  that  they  intend. 
By  interception  which  they  dream  not  of. 

[Enter  King  Henry,   Scroop,   Cambridge,    Grey,   and 

Attendants.] 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  41 1 

King  Henry.     Now  sits  the  wind  fair,  and  we  will 
aboard. 
My  Lord  of  Cambridge,  and  my  kind  Lord  of  Masham, 
And  you,  my  gentle  knight,  give  me  your  thoughts : 
Think  you  not  that  the  powers  we  bear  with  us 
Will  cut  their  passage  through  the  force  of  France?  .  ,  . 
Scroop.     No  doubt,   my  liege,  if  each  man  do  his 

best. 
King  Henry.     I  doubt  not  that ;    since  we  are  well 
persuaded 
We  carry  not  a  heart  with  us  from  hence 
That  grows  not  in  a  fair  consent  with  ours.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Uncle  of  Exeter, 
Enlarge  the  man  committed  yesterday, 
That  rail'd  against  our  person:  we  consider 
It  was  excess  of  wine  that  set  him  on; 
And  on  his  more  advice  we  pardon  him. 

Scroop.     That's  mercy,  but  too  much  security: 
Let  him  be  punish'd,  sovereign,  lest  example 
Breed,  by  his  sufferance,  more  of  such  a  kind. 
King  Henry.     O,  let  us  yet  be  merciful. 
Cambridge,     So  may  your  highness,  and  yet  punish 

too. 
Grey.     Sir, 
You  show  great  mercy,  if  you  give  him  life, 
After  the  taste  of  much  correction. 

King  Henry.     Alas,  your  too  much  care  and  love  of 
me 
Are  heavy  orisons  'gainst  this  poor  wretch! 
If  little  faults,  proceeding  on  distemper, 
Shall  not  be  wink'd  at,  how  shall  we  stretch  our  eye 
When    capital    crimes,     chew'd,    swallow'd,    and    di- 
gested, 


412       SCENES   From    "KING   HENRY   V." 

Appear  before  us? — We'll  yet  enlarge  that  man, 
Though  Cambridge,   Scroop,  and  Grey,  in  their  dear 

care 
And  tender  preservation  of  our  person, 
Would  have  him  punish'd. — And  now  to  our  French 

causes : 
Who  are  the  late  commissioners? 

Cambridge.     I  one,  my  lord: 
Your  highness  bade  me  ask  for  it  to-day. 
Scroop.     So  did  you  me,  my  liege. 
Grey.     And  I,  my  royal  sovereign. 
King  Henry.     Then,   Richard,  Earl  of  Cambridge, 
there  is  yours; — 
There    yours.    Lord    Scroop    of    Masham; — and,    sir 

knight. 
Grey  of  Northumberland,  this  same  is  yours: — 
Read  them ;  and  know,  I  know  your  worthiness.  .   .  . 

Why,  how  now,  gentlemen ! 
What  see  you  in  those  papers  that  you  lose 
So  much  complexion?  .  .  . 

Cambridge.  I  do  confess  my  fault; 

And  do  submit  me  to  your  highness'  mercy. 

Grey.     |  r^^  which  we  all  appeal. 
Scoop.  \  ^^ 

King  Henry.     The  mercy  that  was  quick  in  us  but 

late, 

By  your  own  counsel  is  suppress'd  and  kill'd: 

You  must  not  dare,  for  shame,  to  talk  of  mercy;  .  .  . 

See  you,  my  princes  and  my  noble  peers. 

These    English    monsters!      My   lord    of    Cambridge 

here, — 

You  know  how  apt  our  love  was  to  accord 

To  furnish  him  with  all  appertinents 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  413 

Belonj^iug-  to  his  honour;  and  this  man 
Hath,  for  a  few  light  crowns,  lightly  conspir'd, 
And  sworn  unto  the  practices  of  France,  . 
To  kill  us  here  in  Hampton :  to  the  which 
This  knight,  no  less  for  bounty  bound  to  us 
Than  Cambridge  is,  hath  likewise  sworn. — But,  O, 
What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  Lord  Scroop?  thou  cruel, 
Ingrateful,  savage,  and  inhuman  creature ! 
Thou  that  didst  bear  the  key  of  all  my  counsels, 
That  knew'st  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul, 
That  almost  mightst  have  coin'd  me  into  gold, 
Wouldst  thou  have  practis'd  on  me  for  thy  use. 
May  it  be  possible  that  foreign  hire 
Could  out  of  thee  extract  one  spark  of  evil 
That  might  annoy  my  finger?  .   .   . 

Show  men  dutiful? 
Why,  so  didst  thou:  seem  they  grave  and  learned? 
Why,  so  didst  thou:  come  they  of  noble  family? 
Why,  so  didst  thou:  seem  they  religious? 
Why,  so  didst  thou.   .  .  . 

,  .  .  .  I  will  weep  for  thee ; 
For  this  revolt  of  thine,  methinks,  is  like 
Another  fall  of  man. — Their  faults  are  open: 
Arrest  them  to  the  answer  of  the  law; 
And  God  acqiiit  them  of  their  practices! 

Exeter.  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name 
of  Richard  Earl  of  Cambridge. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of  Henry 
Lord  Scroop  of  Masham. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of  Thomas 
Grey,  knight  of  Northumberland.  .   . 

King  Henry.  God  quit  you  in  his  mercy!  Hear 
yOur  sentence. 


414      SCENES  from    "KING   HENRY   V." 

You  have  conspir'd  against  our  royal  person, 

Join'd  with  an  enemy  proclaim 'd,  and  from  his  coffers 

Receiv'd  the  golden  earnest  of  our  death;  .   .   . 

Touching  our  person  seek  we  no  revenge; 

But  we  our  kingdom's  safety  must  so  tender, 

Whose  ruin  you  have  sought,  that  to  her  laws 

We  do  deliver  you.     Get  you  therefore  hence, 

Poor  miserable  wretches,  to  your  death ; 

The  taste  whereof,  God  of  his  mercy  give 

You  patience  to  endure,  and  true  repentance 

Of  all  your  dear  offences! — Bear  them  hence. 

[Exeunt  Cambridge,  Scroop,  and  Grey,  guarded. 
Now,  lords,  for  France ;  the  enterprise  whereof 
Shall  be  to  you,  as  us,  like  glorious. 
We  doubt  not  of  a  fair  and  lucky  war, 
vSince  God  so  graciously  hath  brought  to  light 
This  dangerous  treason  lurking  in  our  way 
To  hinder  our  beginnings.  .  .  . 
Then  forth,  dear  countrymen :  let  us  deliver 
Our  puissance  into  the  hand  of  God, 
Putting  it  straight  in  expedition. 
Cheerly  to  sea ;  the  signs  of  war  advance : 
No  king  of  England,  if  not  king  of  France.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III. 

London.     Before  a  Tavern. 

[Enter  Pistol,  Hostess,  Nym,  Bardolph,  and  Boy.] 
Hostess.      Prithee,    honey-sweet    husband,    let    me 

bring  thee  to  Staines. 

Pistol.     No;  for  my  manly  heart  doth  yearn. — 

Bardolph,  be  blithe:  Nym,  rouse  thy  vaunting  veins: 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  415 

Boy,  bristle  thy  courage  up ;  for  Falstaff  he  is  dead, 
And  we  must  yearn  therefore. 

Bardolph.  Would  I  were  with  him,  wheresome'er 
he  is,  either  in  heaven  or  in  hell! 

Hostess.  Nay,  sure,  he's  not  in  hell:  he's  in 
Arthur's  bosom,  if  ever  man  went  to  Arthur's  bosom. 
A'  made  a  finer  end,  and  went  away  an  it  had  been  any 
christom  child;  a'  parted  even  jiist  between  twelve  and 
one,  even  at  the  turning  o'  the  tide:  for  after  I  saw 
him  fumble  with  the  sheets  and  play  with  flowers  and 
smile  upon  his  fingers'  ends,  I  knew  there  was  but 
one  way;  for  his  nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  pen,  and 
a'  babbled  of  green  fields.  'How  now,  Sir  John !'  quoth 
I:  'what  man!  be  o'  good  cheer.'  So  a'  cried  out, 
'God,  God,  God!'  three  or  four  times.  Now  I,  to  com- 
fort him,  bid  him  a'  should  not  think  of  God;  I  hoped 
there  was  no  need  to  trouble  himself  with  any  such 
thoughts  yet.  So  a'  bade  me  lay  more  clothes  on  his 
feet :  I  put  my  hand  into  the  bed  and  felt  them,  and 
they  were  as  cold  as  any  stone.   .  .   . 

Nym.     They  say  he  cried  out  of  sack. 

Hostess.     Ay,  that  a'  did. 

Bardolph.     And  of  women. 

Hostess.     Nay,  that  a'  did  not. 

Boy.  Yes,  that  a'  did;  and  said  they  were  devils 
incarnate. 

Hostess.  A'  could  never  abide  carnation;  'twas  a 
colour  he  never  liked. 

Boy.  Do  you  not  remember,  a'  saw  a  flea  stick  upon 
Bardolph's  nose,  and  a'  said  it  was  a  black  soul  burn- 
ing in  hell-fire? 

Bardolph.  Well,  the  fuel  is  gone  that  maintained 
that  fire:  that's  all  the  riches  I  got  in  his  service. 


4i6      SCENES  /ro?H   *'KING   HENRY  V." 

Nym.     Shall  we  shog?  the  king  will  be  gone  from 
Southampton. 

Pistol.     Come,  let's  away. — My  love,   give  me  thy 
lips. 
Look  to  my  chattels  and  my  movables :  .   .  . 
Let  housewifery  appear:  keep  close,  I  thee  command. 

Hostess.     Farewell;  adieu.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   in.     PROLOGUE. 
[Enter  Chorus.] 

Chorus.     Thus  with  imagin'd  wing  our  swift  scene 
flies. 
In  motion  of  no  less  celerity 

Than  that  of  thought.     Suppose  that  you  have  seen 
The  well-appointed  king  at  Hampton  pier 
Embark  his  royalty ;  and  his  brave  fleet 
With  silken  streamers  the  young  Phoebus  fanning: 
Play  with  your  fancies,  and  in  them  behold 
Upon  the  hempen  tackle  ship-boys  climbing; 
Hear  the  shrill  whistle  which  doth  order  give 
To  sounds  confus'd;  behold  the  threaden  sails, 
Borne  with  the  invisible  and  creeping  wind. 
Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  furrow'd  sea. 
Breasting  the  lofty  surge.     O,  do  but  think 
You  stand  upon  the  rivage  and  behold 
A  city  on  the  inconstant  billows  dancing; 
For  so  appears  this  fleet  majestical, 
Holding  due  course  to  Harfleur.     Follow,  follow! 
Grapple  your  minds  to  sternage  of  this  navy. 
And  leave  your  England,  as  dead  midnight  still, 
Guarded  with  grandsires,  babies,  and  old  women, 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  417 

Either  past  or  not  arriv'd  to  pith  and  puissance; 
For  who  is  he,  whose  chin  is  but  enrich 'd 
With  one  appearing  hair,  that  will  not  follow 
These  cuH'd  and  choice-drawn  cavaliers  to  France? 
Work,  work  your  thoughts,  and  therein  see  a  siege ; 
Behold  the  ordnance  on  their  carriages. 
With  fatal  mouths  gaping  on  girded  Harfleur. 
Suppose  the  ambassador  from  the  French  comes  back; 
Tells  Harry  that  the  king  doth  offer  him 
Katherine  his  daughter,  and  with  her,  to  dowry, 
Some  petty  and  unprofitable  dukedoms. 
The  offer  likes  not :  and  the  nimble  gunner 
With  linstock  now  the  devilish  cannon  touches, 

[Alarum,  and  chambers  go  off. 
And  down  goes  all  before  them.     Still  be  kind, 
And  eke  out  our  performance  with  your  mind. 

SCENE    I. 

France.     Before  Harfleur. 

[Alarum.      Enter  King  Henry,   Exeter,   Bedford, 
Gloucester,  and  Soldiers,  with  scaling-ladders.] 

King  Henry.      Once  more    unto  the    breach,   dear 
friends,  once  more. 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead! 
In  peace  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man 
As  modest  stillness  and  humility ; 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger: 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood. 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour 'd  rage.; 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect ; 


4i8       SCENES  from    "KING   HENRY   V." 

Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head 

Like  the  brass  cannon;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it 

As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 

O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 

Swill 'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 

Now  set  the  teeth  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide, 

Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 

To  his  full  height.     On,  on,  you  noble  English, 

Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war  proof. 

Fathers  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 

Have  in  these  parts  from  mom  till  even  fought 

And  sheath'd  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument! 

Dishonour  not  your  mothers;  now  attest 

That  those  whom  you  call'd  fathers  did  beget  you. 

Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood, 

And  teach  them  how  to  war! — And  you,  good  yeomen, 

Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 

The  mettle  of  your  pasture :  let  us  swear 

That  you  are  worth  your  breeding;  which  I  doubt  not. 

For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base. 

That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 

I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips, 

Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game's  afoot: 

Follow  your  spirit,  and  upon  this  charge 

Cry  "God  for  Harry,  England,  and  Saint  George!  ' 

[Exeunt.     Alarum,  and  chambers  go  off. 


THE  NECKLACE.  The  translation  by  Jonathan 
Stnrges.  From  "The  Odd  Number,"  Copyright, 
1889,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.  Reprinted  with  permis- 
sion.    By  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT. 

SHE  was  one  of  those  pretty  and  charming  girls 
who  are  sometimes,  as  if  by  a  mistake  of 
destiny,  born  in  a  family  of  clerks.  She  had  no  dowry, 
no  expectations,  no  means  of  being  known,  understood, 
loved,  wedded,  by  any  rich  and  distinguished  man; 
and  she  let  herself  be  married  to  a  little  clerk  at  the 
Ministry  of  Public  Instruction. 

She  dressed  plainly  because  she  could  not  dress  well, 
but  she  was  as  unhappy  as  though  she  had  really  fallen 
from  her  proper  station.   .  .   . 

She  suffered  ceaselessly,  feeling  herself  born  for  all 
the  delicacies  and  all  the  luxuries.   .  .   . 

She  had  no  dresses,  no  jewels,  nothing.  And  she 
loved  nothing  but  that ;  she  felt  made  for  that.  She 
would  so  have  liked  to  please,  to  be  envied,  to  be 
charming,  to  be  sought  after. 

She  had  a  friend,  a  former  school-mate  at  the  con- 
vent, who  was  rich,  and  whom  she  did  not  like  to  go 
and  see  any  more,  because  she  suffered  so  much  when 
she  came  back. 

But,  one  evening,  her  husband  returned  home  with  a 
triumphant  air,  and  holding  a  large  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"There,  here  is  something  for  you." 

She  tore  the  paper  sharply,  and  drew  out  a  printed 
card  which  bore  these  words: 

"The  jMinister  of  Public  Instruction  and  Mme. 
Georges  Ramponneau  request  the  honor  of  M.  and 
Mme.  Loisel's  company  at  the  palace  of  the  Ministry 
on  Monday  evening,  January  i8th." 

419 


420  The  NECKLACE 

Instead  of  being  delighted,  as  her  husband  hoped, 
she  threw  the  invitation  on  the  table  with  disdain, 
murmuring : 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  that?" 

"But,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  would  be  glad.  You 
never  go  out,  and  this  is  such  a  fine  opportunity.  I 
had  awful  trouble  to  get  it.  Every  one  wants  to  go ; 
it  is  very  select,  and  they  are  not  giving  many  invita- 
tions to  clerks.  The  whole  official  world  will  be 
there."  .   .   . 

"And  what  do  you  want  me  to  put  on  my  back?" 

"Why,  the  dress  you  go  to  the  theatre  in.  It  looks 
very  well,  to  me. " 

He  stopped,  distracted,  seeing  that  his  wife  was  cry- 
ing. Two  great  tears  descended  slowly  from  the 
corners  of  her  eyes  towards  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"What's  the  matter?     What's  the  matter?"  .  .  . 

"Nothing.  Only  I  have  no  dress,  and  therefore  I 
can't  go  to  this  ball.  Give  your  card  to  some  colleague 
whose  wife  is  better  equipped  than  I." 

"Come,  let  us  see,  Mathilde.  How  much  would  it 
cost,  a  suitable  dress,  which  you  could  use  on  other 
occasions,  something  very  simple?" 

She  reflected  several  seconds,  making  her  calcula- 
tions and  wondering  also  what  sum  she  could  ask  V\^ith- 
out  drawing  on  herself  an  immediate  refusal  and  a 
frightened  exclamation  from  the  economical  clerk. 

Finally,  she  replied : 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  think  I  could  manage 
it  with  four  hundred  francs." 

He  had  grown  a  little  pale,  because  he  was  laying 
aside  just  that  amount  to  buy  a  gun  and  treat  himself 
to  a  little  shooting  next  summer. 


By  GUY    DE    MAUPASSANT  421 

But  he  said : 

"All  right.  I  will  give  you  four  hundred  francs. 
And  try  to  have  a  pretty  dress. 

The  day  of  the  ball  drew  near,  and  Mme.  Loisel 
seemed  sad,  uneasy,  anxious.  Her  dress  was  ready, 
however.     Her  husband  said  to  her  one  evening: 

"What  is  the  matter?  Come,  you've  been  so  queer 
these  last  three  days. ' ' 

"It  annoys  me  not  to  have  a  single  jewel,  not  a 
single  stone,  nothing  to  put  on.  I  shall  look  like 
distress.     I  should  almost  rather  not  go  at  all," 

"You  might  wear  natural  flowers.  It's  very  stylish 
at  this  time  of  the  year.  For  ten  francs  you  can  get 
two  or  three  magnificent  roses." 

"No;  there's  nothing  more  humiliating  than  to  look 
poor  among  other  women  who  are  rich, ' ' 

' '  How  stupid  you  are !  Go  look  up  your  friend  Mme. 
Forestier,  and  ask  her  to  lend  you  some  jewels. 
You're  quite  thick  enough  with  her  to  do  that," 

"It's  true.     I  never  thought  of  it." 

The  next  day  she  went  to  her  friend  and  told  of  her 
distress. 

Mme.  Forestier  went  to  a  wardrobe  with  a  glass 
door,  took  out  a  large  jewel-box,  brought  it  back, 
opened  it,  and  said  to  Mme.  Loisel: 

"Choose,  my  dear." 

She  saw  first  of  all  some  bracelets,  then  a  pearl 
necklace,  then  a  Venetian  cross,  gold  and  precious 
stones  of  admirable  workmanship.  She  tried  on  the 
ornaments  before  the  glass,  hesitated,  could  not  make 
up  her  mind  to  part  with  them,  to  give  them  back. 
She  kept  asking: 

"Haven't  you  any  more?" 


422  The  NECKLACE 

"Why,  yes.     Look.     I  don't  know  what  you  like." 

All  of  a  sudden  she  discovered,  in  a  black  satin  box, 
a  superb  necklace  of  diamonds;  and  her  heart  began 
to  beat  with  an  immoderate  desire.  Her  hands 
trembled  as  she  took  it.  She  fastened  it  around  her 
throat,  outside  her  high-necked  dress,  and  remained 
lost  in  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  herself. 

"Can  you  lend  me  that,  only  that?" 

"Why,  yes,  certainly." 

She  sprang  upon  the  neck  of  her  friend,  kissed  her 
passionately,  then  fled  with  her  treasure. 

The  day  of  the  ball  arrived.  Mme.  Loisel  made  a 
great  success.  She  was  prettier  than  them  all,  elegant, 
gracious,  smiling,  and  crazy  with  joy.  All  the  men 
looked  at  her,  asked  her  name,  endeavored  to  be  intro- 
duced. All  the  attaches  of  the  Cabinet  wanted  to  waltz 
with  her.     She  was  remarked  by  the  minister  himself. 

She  danced  with  intoxication,  with  passion,  made 
drunk  by  pleasure,  forgetting  all,  in  the  triumph  of 
her  beauty,  in  the  glory  of  her  success. 

She  went  away  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Her  husband  had  been  sleeping  since  midnight,  in  a 
little  deserted  anteroom,  with  three  other  gentlemen 
whose  wives  were  having  a  very  good  time. 

He  threw  over  her  shoulders  the  wraps  which  he  had 
brought,  modest  wraps  of  common  life,  whose  poverty 
contrasted  with  the  elegance  of  the  ball  dress.  She 
felt  this  and  wanted  to  escape  so  as  not  to  be  remarked 
by  the  other  women,  who  were  enveloping  themselves 
in  costly  furs. 

Loisel  held  her  back. 

"Wait  a  bit.  You  will  catch  cold  outside.  I  will  go 
and  call  a  cab. ' ' 


By  GUY    DE    MAUPASSANT  423 

But  she  did  not  listen  to  him,  and  rapidly  descended 
the  stairs.  When  they  were  in  the  street  they  did  not 
find  a  carriage;  and  they  began  to  look  for  one,  shout- 
ing after  the  cabmen  whom  they  saw  passing  by  at  a 
distance. 

They  went  down  towards  the  Seine,  in  despair, 
shivering  with  cold.  At  last  they  found  on  the  quay 
one  of  those  ancient  noctambulant  coupes  which, 
exactly  as  if  they  were  ashamed  to  show  their  misery 
during  the  day,  are  never  seen  round  Paris  until  after 
nightfall. 

It  took  them  to  their  door  in  the  Rue  des  Martyrs, 
and  once  more,  sadly,  they  climbed  up  homeward.  All 
was  ended,  for  her.  And  as  to  him,  he  reflected  that 
he  must  be  at  the  Ministry  at  ten  o'clock. 

She  removed  the  wraps,  which  covered  her  shoulders, 
before  the  glass,  so  as  once  more  to  see  herself  in  all 
her  glory.  But  suddenly  she  uttered  a  cry.  She  had 
no  longer  the  necklace  around  her  neck! 

Her  husband,  already  half-undressed,  demanded: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  have — T  have — I've  lost  Mme.  Forestier's 
necklace." 

"What !— how?— Impossible ! ' ' 

And  they  looked  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  in  the 
folds  of  her  cloak,  in  her  pockets,  everywhere.  They 
did  not  find  it. 

"You're  sure  you  had  it  on  when  you  left  the 
ball?" 

"Yes,  I  felt  it  in  the  vestibule  of  the  palace." 

"But  if  you  had  lost  it  in  the  street  we  should  have 
heard  it  fall.     It  must  be  in  the  cab." 

'Yes.     Probably.     Did  you  take  his  number?" 


<  t- 


424  The  NECKLACE 

"No.     And  you,  didn't  you  notice  it?" 

"No." 

They  looked,  thunderstruck,  at  one  another.  At 
last  Loisel  put  on  his  clothes. 

"I  shall  go  back  on  foot,"  said  he,  "over  the  whole 
route  which  we  have  taken,  to  see  if  I  can't  find  it." 

And  he  went  out.  She  sat  waiting  on  a  chair  in  her 
ball  dress,  without  strength  to  go  to  bed,  overwhelmed, 
without  fire,  without  a  thought. 

Her  husband  came  back  about  seven  o'clock.  He 
had  found  nothing. 

He  went  to  Police  Headquarters,  to  the  newspaper 
offices,  to  offer  a  reward ;  he  went  to  the  cab  companies 
— everywhere,  in  fact,  whither  he  was  urged  by  the 
least  suspicion  of  hope. 

She  waited  all  day,  in  the  same  condition  of  mad 
fear  before  this  terrible  calamity. 

Loisel  returned  at  night  with  a  hollow,  pale  face;  he 
had  discovered  nothing. 

"You  must  write  to  your  friend,  that  you  have 
broken  the  clasp  of  her  necklace  and  that  you  are 
having  it  mended.  That  will  give  us  time  to  turn 
round. ' ' 

She  wrote  at  his  dictation. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  they  had  lost  all  hope. 

And  Loisel,  who  had  aged  five  years,  declared : 

"We  must  consider  how  to  replace  that  ornament." 

The  next  day  they  took  the  box  which  had  contained 
it,  and  they  went  to  the  jeweller  whose  name  was 
found  within.     He  consulted  his  books. 

"It  was  not  I,  madame,  who  sold  that  necklace ;  I 
must  simply  have  furnished  the  case." 

Then  they  went  from  jeweller  to  jeweller,  searching 


B);  GUY   DE   MAUPASSANT  425 

for  a  necklace  like  the  other,  consulting-  their  memories, 
sick,  both  of  them,  with  chagrin  and  with  anguish. 

They  found,  in  a  shop  at  the  Palais  Royal,  a  string 
of  diamonds  which  seemed  to  them  exactly  like  the  one 
they  looked  for.  It  was  worth  forty  thousand  francs. 
They  could  have  it  for  thirty-six. 

So  they  begged  the  jeweller  not  to  sell  it  for  three 
days  yet.  And  they  made  a  bargain  that  he  should 
buy  it  back  for  thirty-four  thousand  francs,  in  case 
they  found  the  other  one  before  the  end  of  February. 

Loisel  possessed  eighteen  thousand  francs  which  his 
father  had  left  him.     He  would  borrow  the  rest. 

He  did  borrow,  asking  a  thousand  francs  of  one,  five 
hundred  of  another,  five  louis  here,  three  louis  there. 
He  gave  notes,  took  up  ruinous  obligations,  dealt  with 
usurers,  and  all  the  race  of  lenders.  He  compromised 
all  the  rest  of  his  life,  risked  his  signature  without  even 
knowing  if  he  could  meet  it ;  and,  frightened  by  the 
pains  yet  to  come,  by  the  black  misery  which  was 
about  to  fall  upon  him,  by  the  prospect  of  all  the 
physical  privations  and  of  all  the  moral  tortures  which 
he  was  to  suffer,  he  went  to  get  the  new  necklace, 
putting  down  upon  the  merchant's  counter  thirty-six 
thousand  francs. 

When  Mme.  Loisel  took  back  the  necklace,  Mme. 
Forestier  said  to  her,  with  a  chilly  manner: 

"You  should  have  returned  it  sooner,  I  might  have 
needed  it." 

She  did  not  open  the  case,  as  her  friend  had  so  much 
feared.  If  she  had  detected  the  substitution,  what 
would  she  have  thought,  what  would  she  have  said? 
Would  she  not  have  taken  Mme.  Loisel  for  a  thief? 

]\Ime.  Loisel  now  knew  the  horrible  existence  of  the 


426  The  NECKLACE 

needy.  She  took  her  part,  moreover,  all  on  a  sudden, 
with  heroism.  That  dreadful  debt  must  be  paid. 
She  would  pay  it.  They  dismissed  their  servant;  they 
changed  their  lodgings ;  they  rented  a  garret  under  the 
roof.   .  .  , 

Each  month  they  had  to  meet  some  notes,  renew 
others,  obtain  more  time. 

Her  husband  worked  in  the  evening,  making  a  fair 
copy  of  some  tradesman's  accounts,  and  late  at  night 
he  often  copied  manuscript  for  five  sous  a  page. 

And  this  life  lasted  ten  years. 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  they  had  paid  everything, 
everything,  with  the  rates  of  usury,  and  the  accumula- 
tions of  the  compound  interest. 

Mme.  Loisel  looked  old  now.  She  had  become  the 
woman  of  impoverished  households — strong  and  hard 
and  rough.  With  frowsy  hair,  skirts  askew,  and  red 
hands,  she  talked  loud  while  washing  the  floor  with 
great  swishes  of  water.  But  sometimes,  when  her  hus- 
band was  at  the  office,  she  sat  down  near  the  window, 
and  she  thought  of  that  gay  evening  of  long  ago,  of 
that  ball  where  she  had  been  so  beautiful  and  so 
feted.   .   .  . 

But,  one  Sunday,  having  gone  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
Champs  Elysees  to  refresh  herself  from  the  labors  of 
the  week,  she  suddenly  perceived  a  woman  who  was 
leading  a  child.  It  was  Mme.  Forestier,  still  young, 
still  beautiful,  still  charming. 

Mme.  Loisel  felt  moved.  Was  she  going  to  speak  to 
her?  Yes,  certainly.  And  now  that  she  had  paid,  she 
was  going  to  tell  her  all  about  it.     Why  not? 

She  went  up. 

"Good-day,  Jeanne."  .  .  . 


By  GUY    DE    MAUPASSANT  427 

"But — madame!  I  do  not  know — You  must  have 
mistaken." 

"No.     I  am  Mathilde  Loisel." 

"Oh,  my  poor  Mathilda !     How  you  are  changed!" 

"Yes,  I  have  had  days  hard  enough,  since  I  have 
seen  you,  days  wretched  enough — and  that  because  of 
you!" 

"Of  me!     How  so?" 

"Do  you  remember  that  diamond  necklace  which  you 
lent  me  to  wear  at  the  ministerial  ball?" 

"Yes.     Well?" 

"Well,  I  lost  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?     You  brought  it  back." 

"I  brought  you  back  another  just  like  it.  And  for 
this  we  have  been  ten  years  paying.  You  can  under- 
stand that  it  was  not  easy  for  us,  us  who  had  nothing. 
At  last  it  is  ended,  and  I  am  very  glad."  .   .   . 

"You  say  that  you  bought  a  necklace  of  diamonds  to 
replace  mine?" 

"Yes.  You  never  noticed  it,  then !  They  were  very 
like." 

And  she  smiled  with  a  joy  which  was  proud  and 
naive  at  once. 

Mme.  Forestier,  strongly  moved,  took  her  two  hands. 

"Oh,  my  poor  Mathilde!  Why,  my  necklace  was 
paste.     It  was  worth  at  most  five  hundred  francs." 


THE  LETTER  SCENE.  "Macbeth."  Act  I., 
Scene  V.  Inverness.  A  Room  in  Macbeth's  Castle. 
By  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

[Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  reading  a  letter.] 

LADY  MACBETH.     "They  met  me  in  the  day  of 
success;    and  I  have  learned  by  the  perfectest 
report,   they  have  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowl- 
edge.     When   I  burned  in   desire  to    question    them 
further,  they  made  themselves — air,  into  which  they 
vanished.     Whiles  I  stood   rapt  in  the  wonder  of  it, 
came    missives   from    the   king,    who    all-hailed    me, 
'Thane  of  Cawdor';  by  which  title,  before,  these  weird 
sisters  saluted  me,  and  referred  me  to  the  coming  on 
of  time,  with,  'Hail,  king  that  shalt  be!'     This  have  I 
thought  good  to  deliver  thee,  my  dearest  partner  of 
greatness,    that   thou   might'st  not   lose  the   dues  of 
rejoicing,    by  being    ignorant    of    what    greatness    is 
promised  thee.     Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  farewell." 
Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promis'd, — Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature; 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness. 
To  catch  the  nearest  way.     Thou  wouldst  be  great ; 
Art  not  without  ambition,  but  without 
The   illness    should   attend     it:     what    thou    wouldst 

highly. 
That  wouldst  thou  holily;  wouldst  not  play  false. 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win:    thou'dst  have,  great 

Glamis, 
That  which  cries,  "Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it" ; 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do. 
Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear, 

428 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  429 

And  chastise  with  the  valor  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crown'd  withal.  [Enter  a  Messenger. 

What  is  your  tidings? 

Messenger.     The  king  comes  here  to-night. 

L.  Macb.  Thou'rt  mad  to  say  it. 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him?  who,  wer't  so. 
Would  have  inform 'd  for  preparation. 

Mess.     So  please  you,  it  is  true ;  our  thane  is  coming : 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him ; 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

L.  Macb.  Give  him  tending; 

He  brings  great  news.     [Exit  Messenger.]     The  raven 

himself  is  hoarse. 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements. — Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here; 
And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty!  make  thick  my  blood; 
Stop  up  th'  access  and  passage  to  remorse; 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it!     Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murd'ring  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief!     Come,  thick  night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell. 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes. 
Nor  Heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark. 
To  cry,  "Hold,  hold!"—  [Enter  Macbeth. 

Great  Glamis!  worthy  Cawdor! 


430  The  LETTER   SCENE 

Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macbeth.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

L.  Macb.  And  when  goes  hence? 

Macbeth.     To-morrow, — as  he  purposes, 

L.  Macb.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters.     To  beguile  the  time. 
Look  like  the  time ;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye. 
Your  hand,    your    tongue:    look    like     the    innocent 

flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under't.     He  that's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for:  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  dispatch ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macbeth.     We  will  speak  further. 

L.  Macb.  Only  look  up  clear; 

To  alter  favor  ever  is  to  fear. 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  [Exeunt. 


THE     SLEEP-WALKING     SCENE.       "Macbeth." 
Act  V.    Scene  I.     Dunsinane.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

[Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physic  and  a  Waiting  Gentle- 
woman.] 

DOCTOR.  I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you, 
but  can  perceive  no  truth  in  your  report.  When 
was  it  she  last  walked? 

Gentlewoman.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the 
field,  I  have  seen  her  rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her 
nightgown  upon  her,  unlock  her  closet,  take  forth 
paper,  fold  it,  write  upon't,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it, 
and  again  return  to  bed ;  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most 
fast  sleep. 

Doctor.  A  great  perturbation  in  nature,  to  receive 
at  once  the  benefit  of  sleep  and  do  the  effects  of  watch- 
ing! In  this  slumbery  agitation,  besides  her  walking 
and  other  actual  performances,  what  at  any  time  have 
you  heard  her  say? 

Gentlewoman.  That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report 
after  her. 

Doctor.  You  may  to  me,  and  'tis  most  meet  you 
should. 

Gentlewoman.  Neither  to  you  nor  any  one,  hav- 
ing no  witness  to  confirm  my  speech. 

[Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  taper.  ] 
Lo  you,  here  she  comes!     This  is  her  very  guise; 
and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.     Observe  her;   stand 
close. 

Doctor.     How  came  she  by  that  light? 
Gentlewoman.     Why,  it  stood  by  her:  she  has  light 
by  her  continually;  'tis  her  command. 
Doctor.     You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

431 


432  The  SLEEP-WALKING   SCENE 

Gentlewoman.     Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

Doctor.  What  is  it  she  does  now?  Look,  how  she 
rubs  her  hands. 

Gentlewoman.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her, 
to  seem  thus  washing  her  hands:  I  have  known  her 
continue  in  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Lady  Macbeth.     Yet  here's  a  spot. 

Doctor.  Hark!  she  speaks:  I  will  set  down  what 
comes  from  her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance  the  more 
strongly. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Out,  damned  spot!  out,  I  say! — 
One:  two:  why,  then  'tis  time  to  do  't. — Hell  is 
murky! — Fie,  my  lord,  fie!  a  soldier,  and  afeard? 
What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none  can  call 
our  power  to  account? — Yet  who  would  have  thought 
the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in  him. 

Doctor.     Do  you  mark  that? 

Lady  Macbeth.  The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife: 
where  is  she  now? — What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be 
clean? — No  more  o'  that,  my  lord,  no  more  o'  that: 
you  mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Doctor.  Go  to,  go  to;  you  have  known  what  you 
should  not. 

Gentlewoman.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not, 
I  am  sure  of  that;  heaven  knows  what  she  has  known. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still: 
all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little 
hand.     Oh,  oh,  oh! 

Doctor.  What  a  sigh  is  there !  The  heart  is  sorely 
charged. 

Gentlewoman.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my 
bosom  for  the  dignity  of  the  whole  body. 

Doctor.     Well,  well,  well, 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  433 

Gentlewoman.     Pray  God  it  be,  sir. 

Doctor.  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice:  yet  I 
have  known  those  which  have  walked  in  their  sleep 
who  have  died  holily  in  their  beds. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your 
nightgown;  look  not  so  pale. — I  tell  you  yet  again, 
Banquo's  buried;  he  cannot  come  out  on's  grave. 

Doctor.     Even  so? 

Lady  Macbeth.  To  bed,  to  bed!  there's  knocking  at 
the  gate :  come,  come,  come,  come,  give  me  your  hand. 
What's  done  cannot  be  undone.  To  bed,  to  bed,  to 
bed!  [Exit. 

Doctor.     Will  she  go  now  to  bed? 

Gentlewoman.     Directly. 

Doctor.     Foul  whisperings  are  abroad.     Unnatural 
deeds 
Do  breed  unnatural  troubles :  infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets. 
More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. — 
God,  God  forgive  us  all ! — Look  after  her ; 
Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her.     So,  good  night: 
My  mind  she  has  mated,  and  amaz'd  my  sight. 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Gentlewoman.  Good  night,  good  doctor. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENES    FROM    "THE    ROAD    TO    RUIN."     By 
THOMAS  HOLCROFT. 

Dornton's  House. 

[Enter  Mr.  Domton.] 
OR. — Past  two    o'clock,   and  not  yet  returned — 


D 


Well,  well,  it's  my  own  fault!— Mr.  Smith! 
[Enter  Mr.  Smith.] 


Mr.  S.— Sir. 

Dor. — Is  Mr.  Sulky  come  in? 

Mr.  S. — No,  sir. 

Dor. — Are  you  sure  Harry  Domton  said  he  should 
return  to-night? 

Mr.  S. — Yes,  sir. 

Dor. — And  you  don't  know  where  he  is  gone? 

Mr.  S. — He  did  not  tell  me,  sir. 

Dor.  (angrily). — I  ask  you  if  you  know. 

Mr.  S. — I  believe  to  Newmarket,  sir. 

Dor. — You  always  believe  the  worst! — I'll  sit  up  no 
longer. — Tell  the  servants  to  go  to  bed.  And,  do  you 
hear?  should  he  apply  to  you  for  money,  don't  let  him 
have  a  guinea. 

Mr.  S. — Very  well,  sir. 

Dor. — I  have  done  with  him;  he  is  henceforth  no  son 
of  mine !     Let  him  starve ! 

Mr.  S. — He  acts  very  improperly,  sir,  indeed. 

Dor. — Improperly!  How?  (Taking  his  hand.) 
What  does  he  do?     (Alarmed.) 

Mr.  S.— Sir! 

Dor. — Have  you  heard  anything  of 

Mr.  S.  (confused). — No — no,  sir— nothing— nothing 
but  what  you  yourself  tell  me. 

434 


By  THOMAS   HOLCROFT  435 

Dor. — Then  how  do  yoii  know  he  has  acted 
improperly? 

Mr.  S. — He  is  certainly  a  very  good  hearted  young 
gentleman,  sir! 

Dor. — Good-hearted!  How  dare  you  make  such  an 
assertion? 

Mr.  S.— Sir! 

Dor. — How  dare  you,  Mr.  Smith,  insult  me  so?  Is 
not  his  gaming  notorious?  his  racing,  driving,  riding, 
and  associating  with  knaves,  fools  debauchees,  and 
black-legs? 

Mr.  S. — Upon  my  word,  sir,  I — 

Dor. — Upon  your  word!  But  it's  over!  His  name 
has  this  very  day  been  struck  out  of  the  firm !  Let  his 
drafts  be  returned.  It's  all  ended!  And  observe,  not 
a  guinea!  If  you  lend  him  any  yourself,  I'll  not  pay 
you.  I'll  no  longer  be  a  fond,  doting  father!  There- 
fore, take  warning!  Take  warning,  I  say!  Be  his 
distress  what  it  will,  not  a  guinea!  Though  you  should 
hereafter  see  him  begging,  starving  in  the  streets,  not 
so  much  as  the  loan  or  the  gift  of  a  single  guinea. 
(With  vehemence.) 

Mr.  S. — I  shall  be  careful  to  observe  your  orders,  sir. 

Dor. — Why,  would  you  see  him  starve?  Would  you 
see  him  starve,  and  not  lend  him  a  guinea?  Would 
you,  sir?     Would  you? 

Mr.  S. — Certainly  not,  except  in  obedience  to  your 
orders ! 

Dor.  (with  amazement  and  compassion). — And  could 
any  orders  justify  your  seeing  a  poor  unfortunate 
youth,  rejected  by  his  father,  abandoned  by  his  friends, 
starving  to  death? 

Mr.  S. — There  is  no  danger  of  that,  sir. 


436       SCENES  from  ''The  ROAD  to  RUIN" 

Dor. — I  tell  you,  the  thing  shall  happen!  He  shall 
starve  to  death!  (Distressed  at  the  supposition.)  I'll 
never  look  on  him  more  as  a  son  of  mine!  and  I'm 
very  certain,  when  I  have  forsaken  him,  all  the  world 
will  forsake  him,  too.  (Weeps.)  Yes,  yes!  he  is  born 
to  be  a  poor,  wretched  outcast. 

[Enter  Mr.  Sulky.     Exit  Mr.  Smith.] 

Dor. — Well,  Mr.  Sulky,  have  you  heard  anything  of 
him? 

Sul.— Yes. 

Dor. — Put  me  out  of  my  pain!  If  you  are  not  a 
tiger,  put  me  out  of  my  pain ! 

Sul.  (slowly  drawing  a  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket). 
— There:  read! 

Dor. — Dead? 

Sul.— Worse! 

Dor. — Mercy  defend  me !  where?  what? 

Sul. — The  first  paragraph  in  the  postscript:  the 
beginning  line  in  capitals. 

Dor.  (reads). — "The  junior  partner  of  the  great 
banking-house  not  a  mile  from  the  post-office,  has  again 
been  touched  at  Newmarket,  for  upwards  of  ten  thou- 
sand pounds."     (Pause.)     It  can't  be! 

Sul.— Humph! 

Dor. — Why,  can  it? 

Sul.— Yes. 

Dor. — How  do  you  know?  What  proof  have  you 
that  it  is  not  a  lie? 

Sul. — His  own  hand-writing. 

Dor. — How? 

Sul. — Bills  at  three  days'  sight,  to  the  full  amount, 
have  already  been  presented. 


By  THOMAS    HOLCROFT  437 

Dor. — And  accepted? 

Sul.— Yes. 

Dor. — But — why — were  you  mad,  Mr.  Sulky?  Were 
you  mad? 

Sul. — I  soon  shall  be. 

Dor. — Is  not  his  name  struck  off  the  firm? 

Sul. — They  were  dated  two  days  before. 

Dor. — The  credit  of  my  house  begans  to  totter! 

Sul.— Well  it  may! 

Dor. — What  the  effect  of  such  a  paragraph  may  be,  I 
cannot  tell. 

Sul. — I  can: — Ruin! 

Dor. — Are  you  serious,  sir? 

Sul. — I  am  not  inclined  to  laugh. — A  run  against  the 
house,  stoppage,  disgrace,  bankruptcy! 

Dor. — Really,  Mr.  Sulky,  you 

Sul. — Yes,  I  know  I  offend.  I  was  bred  in  your 
house,  you  used  me  tenderly,  I  served  you  faithfully, 
and  you  admitted  me  a  partner.  Don't  think  I  care  for 
myself.  No,  I  can  sit  at  the  desk  again.  But  you  I 
you !  first  man  of  the  first  commercial  city  on  earth, 
your  name  in  the  Gazette !  Were  it  mine  only,  I  would 
laugh  at  it.     What  am  I?  who  cares  for  me? 

Dor.— Where  is  the  vile (Calling.)      Mr.  Smith 

— Thomas — William ! 

[Enter  Mr.  Smith.] 

Call  all  the  servants  together,  Mr.  Smith;  clerks, 
footmen,  maids,  every  soul!  Tell  them  their  young 
master  is  a  scoundrel. 

Mr.  S. — Very  well,  sir. 

Dor. — Sir?  Bid  them  shut  the  door  in  his  face !  I'll 
turn  the  first  away  that  lets  him  set  his  foot  in  this 
house  ever  again ! 


438       SCENES  /ro7n  ''The  ROAD  to  RUIN" 

Mr.  S. — Very  well,  sir. 

Dor. — Very  well,  sir!  Confound  your  very  well,  sir! 
I  tell  you,  it  is  not  very  well,  sir.  He  shall  starve, 
die,  rot  in  the  street !     Is  that  very  well,  sir? 

[Exeunt  Dornton  and  Smith. 

Sul. — He  has  a  noble  heart.  A  fond  father's  heart! 
The  boy  was  a  fine  youth ;  but  he  spoiled  him ;  and 
now  he  quarrels  with  himself  and  all  the  world,  because 
he  hates  his  own  folly.  (A  knocking  at  the  street 
door.)  So!  here  is  the  youth  returned.  (Knocking 
again.     Exit.) 

[Enter  Dornton,  with  Servants.] 

Dor. — Don't  stir! — On  your  lives,  don't  go  to  the 
door!     Are  the  bolts  and  locks  all  fastened? 

Servants. — All,  sir. 

Dor. — Don't  mind  his  knocking!  Go  to  bed,  every 
soul  of  you,  instantly,  and  fall  asleep !  He  shall  starve 
in  the  streets!  (Knocking  again.)  Fetch  me  my 
blunderbuss!     Make  haste! 

SCENE  II.     Dornton's  House. 
[Enter  Harry  Dornton,  Milford,  and  Footman.] 

Foot. — My  old  master  is  in  a  bitter  passion,  sir. 

Har. — I  know  it. 

Foot. — He  is  gone  down  to  turn  the  servant  out  of 
doors  that  let  you  in. 

Har. — Is  he?  Then  go  and  let  your  fellow-servant 
in  again. 

Foot. — I  dare  not,  sir. 

Har.— Then  I  must.  [Exit. 

Foot. — He  inquired  who  was  with  my  young  master. 

Mil— Well! 


By  THOMAS   HOLCROFT  439 

Foot. — And  when  he  heard  it  was  you,  sir,  he  was 
ten  times  more  furious. 

[Re-enter  Harry  Dornton.] 

Har. — All's  well  that  ends  well.  This  has  been  a 
cursed  long  voyage,  Milford. 

Mil. — I'm  a  hundred  and  fifty  in. 

Har. — And  I  ten  thousand  out. 

Mil. — I  believe  I  had  better  avoid  your  father  for  the 
present. 

Har. — I  think  you  had.  Dad  considers  you  as  my 
tempter;  the  cause  of  my  ruin. 

Mil. — I  hear  he  threatens  to  arrest  me. 

Har. — Yes!  He  has  threatened  to  strike  my  name 
out  of  the  firm  and  disinherit  me,  a  thousand  times, 

'  [Enter  Mr.  Sulky.] 

My  dear  Mr.  Sulky,  how  do  you  do? 

Sul.— Very  ill! 

Har. — Indeed?  I  am  very  sorry!  What's  your  dis- 
order? 

Sul.— You! 

Har. — Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Sul. — Ruin,  bankruptcy,  infamy! 

Har.— The  old  story! 

Sul. — To  a  new  tune.  You  are  a  couple  of  pretty 
gentlemen!  But  beware!  misfortune  is  at  your  heels! 
Mr.  Dornton  vows  vengeance  on  you  both,  and  justly. 
He  is  not  gone  to  bed;  and,  if  you  have  confidence 
enough  to  look  him  in  the  face,  I  would  have  you  stay 
where  you  are. 

Mil. — I    neither    wish    to    insult,  nor    be    insulted. 

fExit. 


440       SCENES /r^w  ''The  ROAD  to  RUIN" 

Sul. — Do  you  know,  sir,  your  father  turned  the  poor 
fellow  into  the  street,  who  compassionately  opened  the 
door  for  you? 

Har. — Yes;    and  my  father  knows  I  as  compassion- 
ately opened  the  door  for  the  poor  fellow  in  return. 
[Enter  Dornton,  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.] 

Dor. — So,  sir! 

Har.  (bowing). — I  am  happy  to  see  you,  sir. 

Dor. — You  are  there,  after  having  broken  into  my 
house  at  midnight! — and  you  are  here  (holding  up 
paper),  after  having  ruined  me  and  my  house  by  your 
unprincipled  prodigality!     Are  you  not  a  scoundrel? 

Har. — No,  sir;  I  am  only  a  fool. 

Sul. — Good-night  to  you,  gentlemen.  [Going. 

Dor. — Stay  where  you  are,  Mr.  Sulky.  I  beg  you  to 
stay  where  you  are,  and  be  a  witness  to  my  solemn 
renunciation  of  him  and  his  vices ! 

Sul. — I  have  witnessed  it  a  thousand  times. 

Dor. — But  this  is  the  last.  (To  Harry.)  Are  you 
not  a  scoundrel,  I  say? 

Har. — I  am  your  son. 

Dor.  (calling). — Mr.  Smith!  bring  in  those  deeds. 

[Enter  Mr.  Smith,  with  papers.] 

You  will  not  deny  you  are  an  incorrigible  squan- 
derer? 

Har. — I  will  deny  nothing. 

Dor. — A  nuisance,  a  wart,  a  blot,  a  stain  upon  the 
face  of  nature ! 

Har. — A  stain  that  will  wash  out,  sir. 

Dor. — A  redundancy,  a  negation;  a  besotted,  sophis- 
ticated incumbrance;  a  jumble  of  fatuity;  your  head, 
your  heart,   your  words,    your  actions,   all  a  jargon; 


By  THOMAS    HOLCROFT  441 

incoherent  and  unintelligible  to  yourself,  absurd  and 
offensive  to  others?  [Smith  retires. 

Har. — I  am  whatever  you  please,  sir. 

Dor. — Bills  never  examined,  everything  bought  on 
credit,  the  price  of  nothing  asked!  Conscious  you 
were  weak  enough  to  wish  for  baubles  you  did  not 
want,  and  pant  for  pleasures  you  could  not  enjoy,  you 
had  not  the  effrontery  to  assume  the  circumspect 
caution  of  common  sense !  And  to  your  other  destruc- 
tive follies,  you  must  add  the  detestable  vice  of  gaming ! 

Har. — These  things,  sir,  are  much  easier  done  than 
defended. 

Dor.— But  here.  (To  Mr.  Smith,  who  advances.) 
Give  me  that  parchment!  The  partners  have  all  been 
summoned !  Look,  sir !  your  name  has  been  formally 
erased  1 

Har. — The  partners  are  very  kind. 

Dor. — The  suspicions  already  incurred  by  the  known 
profligacy  of  a  principal  in  the  firm,  the  immense  sums 
you  have  drawn,  this  paragraph,  the  run  on  the  house 

it  will  occasion,  the  consternation  of  the  whole  city 

[Smith  retires  to  background. 

Har. — All  very  terrible,  and  some  of  it  very  true. 
(Half  aside.) 

Dor.  (passionately).— If  I  should  happily  outlive  the 
storm  you  have  raised,  it  shall  not  be  to  support  a 
prodigal,  or  to  reward  a  gambler!  You  are  disin- 
herited!    Read!     (Taking  more  papers  from  Smith.) 

Har. — Your  word  is  as  good  as  the  Bank,  sir. 

Dor. — I'll  no  longer  act  the  doting  father,  fascinated 
by  your  arts ! 

Har. — I  never  had  any  art,  sir,  except  the  one  you 
taught  me. 


442       SCENES /r^w  ''The  ROAD  to   RUIN" 

Dor, — I  taught  you!     What,  scoundrel?  what? 

Har. — That  of  loving  you,  sir. 

Dor. — Loving  me! 

Har. — Most  sincerely! 

Dor.  (forgetting  his  passion). — Why,  can  you  say, 
Harry — Rascal,  I  mean — that  you  love  me? 

Har. — I  should  be  a  rascal,  indeed,  if  I  did  not,  sir. 

Dor. — Harry!  Harry!  (Greatly  agitated.)  No; 
confound  me  if  I  do.     Sir,  you  are  a  vile 

Har. — I  know  I  am. 

Dor. — And  I'll  never  speak  to  you  more.         [Going. 

Har. — Bid  me  good-night,  sir.  Mr.  Sulky,  here,  will 
bid  me  good-night,  and  you  are  my  father!  Good- 
night, Mr.  Sulky! 

Sul. — Good-night.  [Exit. 

Har. — Come,  sir! 

Dor. — Good (Struggling  with  passion.)  I  won't! 

If  I  do 

Har. — Reproach  me  with  my  follies,  strike  out  my 
name,  disinherit  me — I  deserve  it  all,  and  more.  But 
say  "Good-night,  Harry!" 

Dor. — I  won't!     I  won't!     I  won't! 

Har. — Poverty  is  a  trifle, — we  can  whistle  it  off;  but 
enmity 

Dor. — I  will  not! 

Har. — Sleep  in  enmity!  And  who  can  say  how 
soundly?     Come!  good-night. 

Dor. — I  won't!     I  won't!  [Runs  off. 

Har. — Say  you  so?  Why,  then,  my  noble-hearted 
dad,  I  am  indeed  a  scoundrel! 

[Re-enter  Mr.  Dornton.] 

Dor.— Good -night?  [Exit. 

Har.— Good-night!  [Exit. 


SCENES  FROM  "KING  HENRY  VIII."     I.  ANNE 
BULLEN.      By  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Queen's  Apartments. 
[Enter  Anne  Bullen  and  an  Old  Lady.] 

ANNE.      Not  for   that    neither;— here's  the  pang 
that  pinches: 
His  highness  having  liv'd  so  long  with  her,  and  she 
So  good  a  lady,  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonour  of  her, — by  my  life. 
She  never  knew  harm-doing.   .  .   .  Verily, 
I  swear  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

Old  Lady.  Our  content 

Is  our  best  having. 

Anne.  By  my  troth 

I  would  not  be  a  queen. 

Old  Lady.  Beshrew  me,  I  would, 

And  so  would  you. 
For  all  this  spice  of  your  hypocrisy.  .  .   . 

Anne.  Nay,  good  troth, — 

Old  Lady.     Yes,  troth,  and  troth. — You  would  not 
be  a  queen? 

Anne.     No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven.   .  . 

[Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain.] 

Chamberlain.     Good  morrow,  ladies.     What  were't 
worth  to  know 
The  secret  of  your  conference? 

Anne.  My  good  lord. 

Not  your  demand;  it  values  not  your  asking. 
Our  mistress'  sorrows  we  were  pitying. 

4-13 


444     SCENES  from  "KING   HENRY   VIII." 

Chamberlain.    It  was  a  gentle  business,  and  becoming 
The  action  of  good  women;  there  is  hope 
All  will  be  well. 

Anne.  Now,  I  pray  God,  amen! 

Chamberlain.     You  bear  a  gentle  mind,  and  heav- 
enly blessings 
Follow  such  creatures.     That  you  may,  fair  lady, 
Perceive  I  speak  sincerely,  .   .  .  the  king's  majesty 
Commends  his  good  opinion  to  you,  and 
Does  purpose  honour  to  you  no  less  flowing 
Than  Marchioness  of  Pembroke;  to  which  title 
A  thousand  pound  a  year,  annual  support, 
Out  of  his  grace  he  adds. 

Anne.  .  .   .  Beseech  your  lordship, 

Vouchsafe  to  speak  my  thanks,  and  my  obedience, 
As  from  a  blushing  handmaid,  to  his  highness, 
Whose  health  and  royalty  I  pray  for. 

Chamberlain.  Lady, 

I  shall  not  fail  to  approve  the  fair  conceit 
The  king  hath  of  you.   ... 

[Exit  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Old  Lady.     Why,  this  it  is ;  see,  see ! 
I  have  been  begging  sixteen  years  in  court — 
Am  yet  a  courtier  beggarly, — nor  could 
Come  pat  betwixt  too  early  and  too  late. 
For  any  suit  of  pounds ;  and  you,  O  fate ! 
A  very  fresh-fish  here, — fie,  fie  upon 
This  compell'd  fortune! — have  your  mouth  fill'd  up 
Before  you  open  it. 

Anne.  This  is  strange  to  me. 

Old  Lady.     How  tastes  it?    is  it  bitter?  forty  pence, 
no. 
There  was  a  lady  once — 'tis  an  old  story — 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  445 

That  would  not  be  a  queen,  that  would  she  not, 
For  all  the  mud  in  Egypt:— have  you  heard  it? 

Anne.     Come,  you  are  pleasant. 

Old  Lady.  With  your  theme  I  could 

O'ermount  the  lark.     The  Marchioness  of  Pembroke! 
A  thousand  pounds  a  year! — for  pure  respect; 
No  other  obligation !     By  my  life. 
That  promises  more  thousands ;  honour's  train 
Is  longer  than  his  foreskirt.     By  this  time 
I  know  your  back  will  bear  a  duchess. — Say, 
Are  you  not  stronger  than  you  were? 

Anne.  Good  lady. 

Make  yourself  mirth  with  your  particular  fancy, 
And  leave  me  out  on't.     Would  I  had  no  being, 
If  this  salute  my  blood  a  jot!  it  faints  me 
To  think  what  follows. — 
The  queen  is  comfortless,  and  we  forgetful 
In  our  long  absence.     Pray  do  not  deliver 
What  here  you've  heard  to  her. 

Old  Lady.  What  do  you  think  me? 

[Exeunt. 

n.  QUEEN  KATHERINE. 
A  Hall  in  Black-friars. 
[Trumpets,  sennet,  and  cornets.  Enter  two  Vergers, 
with  short  silver  wands ;  next  them,  two  Scribes, 
in  the  habit  of  doctors;  after  them,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  alone ;  after  him,  the  Bishops 
of  Lincoln,  Ely,  Rochester,  and  Saint  Asaph; 
next  them,  with  some  small  distance,  follows  a 
Gentleman  bearing  the  purse,  with  the  great  seal, 
and  a  cardinal's  hat;  then  two  Priests,  bearing 
each  a  silver  cross;  then  a  Gentleman-Usher,  bare- 


446      SCENES  from  "KING    HENRY   VIII.". 

headed,  accompanied  with  a  Sergeant-at-Arms, 
bearing  a  silver  mace ;  then  two  Gentlemen,  bear- 
ing two  great  silver  pillars;  after  them,  side  by 
side,  the  two  Cardinals,  Wolsey  and  Campeius; 
two  Noblemen  with  the  sword  and  mace.  Then 
enter  the  King  with  his  train,  followed  by  the 
Queen  with  hers.  The  King  takes  place  under 
the  cloth  of  state ;  the  two  Cardinals  sit  under  him 
as  judges.  The  Queen  takes  place  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  King.  The  Bishops  place  them- 
selves on  each  side  the  court,  in  manner  of  a 
consistory;  below  them,  the  Scribes.  The  Lords 
sit  next  the  Bishops.  The  rest  of  the  Attendants 
in  convenient  order  about  the  stage.  ] 

Wolsey.     Whilst  our  commission  from  Rome  is  read. 
Let  silence  be  commanded. 

King  Henry.  What's  the  need? 

It  hath  already  publicly  been  read. 
And  on  all  sides  the  authority  allow'd; 
You  may,  then,  spare  that  time. 

Wolsey.  Be't  so. — Proceed. 

Scribe.     Say,   Henry,  King  of  England,  come  into 

the  court. 
Crier.     Henry,    King  of    England,   come    into    the 

court. 
King  Henry.     Here. 
Scribe.     Say,  Katherine,   Queen  of  England,   come 

into  the  court. 
Crier.     Katherine,  Queen  of  England,  come  into  the 
court. 

[The  Queen  makes  no  answer,  rises  out  of  her  chair, 
goes  about  the  court,  comes  to  the  King,  and 
kneels  at  his  feet;  then  speaks.] 


By  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  447 

Queen  Katherine.     Sir,  I  desire  you  do  me  right  and 
justice, 
And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me ;  for 
I  am  a  most  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger, 
Born  out  of  your  dominions,  having  here 
No  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 
Of  equal  friendship  and  proceeding.     Alas,  sir, 
In  what  have  I  offended  you?  .   .   .   Heaven  witness 
I  have  been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
At  all  times  to  your  will  conformable : 
Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  your  dislike, 
Yea,  subject  to  your  countenance ;  glad  or  sorry, 
As  I  saw  it  inclin'd.     When  was  the  hour 
I  ever  contradicted  your  desire. 
Or  made  it  not  mine  too?     Or  which  of  your  friends 
Have  I  not  strove  to  love,  although  I  knew 
He  were  mine  enemy?  what  friend  of  mine, 
That  had  to  him  deriv'd  your  anger,  did  I 
Continue  in  my  liking?  nay,  gave  notice 
He  was  from  thence  discharg'd.     Sir,  call  to  mind 
That  I  have  been  your  wife,  in  this  obedience, 
Upward  of  twenty  years,  and  have  been  blest 
With  many  children  by  you.     If  in  the  course 
And  process  of  this  time,  you  can  report, 
And  prove  it  too,  against  mine  honour  aught, 
My  bond  to  wedlock,  or  my  love  and  duty. 
Against  your  sacred  person,  in  God's  name, 
Turn  me  away ;  and  let  the  foul'st  contempt 
Shut  door  upon  me,  and  so  give  me  up 
To  the  sharp'st  kind  of  justice.     Please  you,  sir. 
The  king,  your  father,  was  reputed  for 
A  prince  most  prudent,  of  an  excellent 
And  unmatched  wit  and  judgment;  Ferdinand, 


448     SCENES  from  "KING   HENRY   VIII." 

My  father,  King  of  Spain,  was  reckon'd  one 

The  wisest  prince  that  there  had  reign'd  by  many 

A  year  before:  it  is  not  to  be  question'd 

That  they  had  gather' d  a  wise  council  to  them 

Of  every  realm,  that  did  debate  this  business. 

Who    deem'd    our    marriage    lawful.      Wherefore    I 

humbly 
Beseech  you,  sir,  to  spare  me,  till  I  may 
Be  by  my  friends  in  Spain  advis'd,  whose  counsel 
I  will  implore;  if  not,  i'  the  name  of  God, 
Your  pleasure  be  fulfiU'd. 

Wolsey.  You  have  here,  lady, — 

And  of  your  choice, — these  reverend  fathers;  men 
Of  singular  integrity  and  learning. 
Yea,  the  elect  o'  the  land,  who  are  assembled 
To  plead  your  cause.     It  shall  be  therefore  bootless 
That  longer  you  desire  the  court,  as  well 
For  your  own  quiet  as  to  rectify 
What  is  unsettled  in  the  king. 

Campeius.  His  grace 

Hath  spoken  well  and  justly;  therefore,  madam, 
It's  fit  this  royal  session  do  proceed. 
And  that  without  delay  their  arguments 
Be  now  produc'd  and  heard. 

Queen  Katherine.  Lord  Cardinal, 

To  you  I  speak. 

Wolsey.  Your  pleasure,  madam? 

Queen  Katherine.  Sir, 

I  am  about  to  weep ;  but,  thinking  that 
We  are  a  queen — or  long  have  dream'd  so, — certain 
The  daughter  of  a  king,  my  drops  of  tears 
I'll  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

Wolsey.  Be  patient  yet. 


By  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE  449 

Queen   Katherine.     I  will,   when  you  are  humble; 
nay,  before, 
Or  God  will  punish  me,     I  do  believe, 
Induc'd  by  potent  circumstances,  that 
You  are  mine  enemy,  and  make  my  challenge 
You  shall  not  be  my  judge;  for  it  is  you 
Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  me, — 
Which  God's  dew  quench !— Therefore,  I  say  again, 
I  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul. 
Refuse  you  for  my  judge;  whom,  yet  once  more, 
I  hold  my  most  malicious  foe,  and  think  not 
At  all  a  friend  to  truth. 

Wolsey.  I  do  profess 

You  speak  not  like  yourself;  who  ever  yet 
Have  stood  to  charity,  and  display'd  the  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O'ertopping   woman's  power.       Madam,    you    do  me 

wrong ; 
I  have  no  spleen  against  you,  nor  injustice 
For  you  or  any :  how  far  I  have  proceeded. 
Or  how  far  further  shall,  is  warranted 
By  a  commission  from  the  consistory, 
Yea,  the  whole  consistory  of  Rome.  .   .  . 

Queen  Katherine.     My  lord,  my  lord, 
I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 
T'  oppose  your  cunning.     You're  meek  and  humble- 
mouth 'd; 
You  sign  your  place  and  calling  in  full  seeming. 
With  meekness  and  humility,  but  your  heart 
Is  cramm'd  with  arrogancy,  spleen,  and  pride. 
You  have,  by  fortune  and  his  highness'  favours. 
Gone  slightly  o'er  low  steps,  and  now  are  mounted 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers ;  and  your  words. 


450     SCENES /r^w  "KING    HENRY  VIII." 

Domestics  to  you,  serve  your  will  as't  please 
Yourself  pronounce  their  office.     I  must  tell  you, 
You  tender  more  your  person's  honour  than 
Your  high  profession  spiritual;  that  again 
I  do  refuse  you  for  my  judge,  and  here, 
Before  you  all,  appeal  unto  the  pope. 
To  bring  my  whole  cause  fore  his  holiness, 
And  to  be  judg'd  by  him. 

[She  curtsies  to  the  King,  and  offers  to  depart. 
Campeius.  The  queen  is  obstinate, 

Stubborn  to  justice,  apt  to  accuse  it,  and 
Disdainful  to  be  tried  by't;  'tis  not  well. 
She's  going  away. 

King  Henry.     Call  her  again. 

Crier.     Katherine,  Queen  of  England,  come  into  the 

court. 
Griffith.     Madam,  you  are  call'd  back. 
Queen   Katherine.      What   need  you  note  it?    pray 
you,  keep  your  way ; 
When  you  are  call'd,  return. — Now  the  Lord  help! 
They  vex  me  past  my  patience. — Pray  you,  pass  on; 
I  will  not  tarry,  no,  nor  ever  more 
Upon  this  business  my  appearance  make 
In  any  of  their  courts. 

[Exeunt  Queen  and  her  Attendants. 


THE    POTION    SCENE.     "Romeo  and  Juliet."     By 
WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

ACT   IV.     SCENE   III. 
Juliet's  Chamber. 

•  •  ■  •  •  •  • 

[Exeunt  Lady  Capulet  and  Nurse.] 

JULIET.      Farewell!      God    knows  when  we  shall 
meet  again. 
I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 
That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life: 
I'll  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me: — 
Nurse! — What  should  she  do  here? 
My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. 
Come,  vial. 

What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all? 
Shall  I  be  married  then  to-morrow  morning? 
No,  no:  this  shall  forbid  it. — Lie  thou  there. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead; 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonour'd, 
Because  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo? 
I  fear  it  is;  and  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not, 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man : 
I  will  not  entertain  so  bad  a  thought — 
How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Come  to  redeem  me?  there's  a  fearful  point! 
Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault. 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes  in, 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like, 
The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night, 

451 


452  The  POTION    SCENE 

Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place, 
As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle. 
Where,  for  these  many  hundred  years,  the  bones 
Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  pack'd; 
Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth. 
Lies  festering  in  his  shroud ;  where,  as  they  say, 
At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort; 
Alack,  alack!     Is  it  not  like,  that  I, 
So  early  waking ;  what  with  loathsome  smells, 
And  shrieks  like  mandrakes'  torn  out  of  the  earth, 
That  living  mortals,  hearing  them,  run  mad, — 
O !  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught, 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone, 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains? 
O,  look!  methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Upon  a  rapier's  point.     Stay,  Tybalt,  stay! 
Romeo,  I  come !  this  do  I  drink  to  thee. 

[She  throws  herself  on  the  bed. 


THE  SINKING  OF  THE  MERRIMAC.  All  rights 
reserved.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Herbert  S.  Stone  & 
Company.     By  ARTHUR  DUDLEY  HALL. 

THE  scene  is  that  fair  island  which  its  discoverer, 
Columbus,  described  as  "the  finest  land  that  eye 
ever  rested  upon,  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world." 

Outside  the  harbor  of  Santiago  de  Cuba  lies  the  fleet 
of  the  United  States,  under  the  command  of  Admiral 
Sampson.  Within  are  the  Spanish  war-ships  of 
Admiral  Cervera.  The  harbor  is  filled  with  mines, 
which  it  is  impossible  for  the  Americans  to  locate 
accurately,  and  the  Spanish  are  safe  there.  "Bottle 
them  up!"  has  been  the  order,  the  words  arousing  both 
admiration  and  laughter  in  this  country,  as  well  as 
throughout  Europe.  And  bottled  up  they  are !  But, 
alas,  the  mouth  of  the  bottle  is  open.  No  cork  has  as 
yet  been  forced  into  it.  This  must  be  done.  But 
how?  All  through  the  past  night  a  sharp  watch  has 
been  kept  on  board  the  Yankee  ships,  so  that  no  tor- 
pedo boat  could  creep  out  from  the  harbor,  sending 
some  other  splendid  ship  to  the  fate  of  the  Maine. 
On  this  particular  morning,  as  the  sun  mounts  higher 
and  higher,  there  is  assembled  in  the  Admiral's  cabin 
on  board  the  flagship  a  group  of  earnest,  resolute 
officers.  They  are  there  to  discuss  a  plan  of  strategy, 
which,  if  adopted,  is  almost  certain  to  consign  one  or 
more  of  them  to  a  watery  grave. 

About  a  hundred  yards  away  from  the  flagship  lies  a 
dirty  old  collier,  the  Merrimac,  a  tramp,  as  she  was 
called  when  she  first  arrived.  A  tramp,  indeed,  but  a 
tramp  that  was  to  prove  a  hero.  In  the  Admiral's 
cabin,  the  collection  of  officers  grow  more  and  more 
grave  as  the  solution  of  the  problem  they  have  in  hand 

453 


454  The  SINKING   of  the   MERRIMAC 

draws  to  a  close.  One  thing  is  certain — a  vessel  must 
be  sacrificed,  and  what  is  far  more  serious,  a  number 
of  precious  lives  as  well. 

It  is  impossible  for  more  than  one  vessel  at  a  time 
to  pass  through  the  narrow  gap  leading  to  Santiago 
harbor  and  to  reach  the  much-desired  fleet  within. 
The  channel  is  only  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet  wide, 
and  across  it  are  spread  three  rows  of  mines,  six  in  a 
row,  some  of  them  arranged  to  explode  by  contact,  and 
the  rest  connected  by  electricity  with  the  shore.  Even 
if  the  mines  can  be  destroyed,  the  advantage  is  still 
with  the  Spanish  fleet.  For,  while  the  latter  lies 
within,  Cervera  can  so  maneuver  his  ships  as  to  con- 
centrate all  his  fire  on  our  one  poor  vessel  that  first 
tries  to  enter  the  noxious  "bottle." 

The  hour  has  come,  and  the  man  is  ready.  This 
man  is  a  young,  light-haired  naval  constructor.  Lieuten- 
ant Richmond  Pearson  Hobson !  Possessing  technical 
knowledge,  natural  inventive  genius  and  experience, 
he  has  formulated  a  plan  to  countermine  the  entrance 
to  Santiago  harbor  and  to  solve  the  problem,  the  con- 
templation of  which  has  brought  those  solemn  officers 
together.  Eagerly  the  bright-faced  young  man 
explains  to  them  his  project  and  unfolds  his  vision  of 
success.  The  gray-haired  admiral  and  those  surround- 
ing him  listen  attentively.  The  pros  and  cons  of  the 
plan  are  discussed  most  carefully.  At  last,  the  young 
officer,  by  sheer  force  of  intellect  and  foresight,  wins 
the  approval  of  his  strategic  game. 

By  noon  the  admiral  has  detailed  Lieutenant  Hobson 
to  command  the  expedition  he  has  planned.  But  more 
than  one  of  those  present  looks  with  dimmed  eyes 
through  tears  that  are  no  disgrace  to  their  manhood, 


By   ARTHUR  DUDLEY  HALL     455 

at  this  brave  young  fellow  who  is  facing  unflinchingly 
what  seems  to  be  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  glorious 
sacrifice.  Can  there  be  anything  but  death  to  reward 
him? 

On  the  bridge  of  the  Merrimac,  the  officer  of  the 
deck  is  idly  watching  the  busy  crew  coaling  the  Massa- 
chusetts. Suddenly  he  sees  that  the  flagship,  New 
York,  is  signaling  him,  and  to  his  unbounded  sur- 
prise, he  interprets  the  signals  as  follows: 

"Prepare  to  abandon  ship.  Let  officers  and  men 
take  valuables  and  clothes  with  them.  The  Merrimac 
is  to  be  sunk  at  the  entrance  of  the  harbor.  Admiral 
Sampson  presents  his  compliments  and  wishes  Captain 
Miller  to  report  on  flagship  at  once  for  instructions," 

It  is  now  exactly  noon — eight  bells — and  instantly 
all  is  excitement  and  confusion  on  board  the  collier. 
There  is  also  great  commotion  among  the  ships  of  the 
fleet,  for  they  have  read  the  signals  of  the  New  York. 

Deep  down  in  the  hold  of  the  J^Ierrimac,  the 
begrimed  stokers  have  not  yet  heard  the  news.  When 
word  is  finally  called  down,  a  deep  voice  bellows  back : 

"Stopyerkidden'!" 

"It's  God's  truth,  boys,"  the  master-at-arms  replies 
earnestly. 

Every  doubt  removed,  the  stokers  now  all  pile  up  on 
deck.  Then  every  man  on  the  boat  carefully  packs  his 
best,  realizing  that  all  must  be  found  or  lost.  Inside 
of  an  hour,  that  is,  about  one  o'clock.  Captain  Miller 
returns  on  board  accompanied  by  the  hero  of  the 
moment — Hobson !  The  latter  is  now  standing  on  the 
deck  of  the  vessel  he  is  to  command — command  to  the 
death. 

It  is  known  that  but  a  small  crew  is  to  go  with  him, 


456  The  SINKING  of  the   MERRIMAC 

but  there  is  scarcely  a  man  on  all  the  ships  that  is  not 
anxious  to  be  one  of  that  small  force.  At  last  seven 
men  are  selected,  to  the  disappointment  of  all  the  rest. 

Soon  after  coming  on  board,  Lieutenant  Hobson  is 
in  action.  The  plans  of  the  ship  are  placed  in  his 
hands,  and,  in  a  very  short  time,  he  is  at  work  prepar- 
ing for  the  speedy  sinking  of  the  Merrimac.  He  is  a 
most  accurate  and  well-informed  naval  constructor, 
and,  when  he  has  finished,  his  plans  and  the  proposed 
execution  of  them  are  perfect. 

With  explosives  and  electric  wiring,  the  Merrimac  is 
the  deadliest  counter-mine  that  ever  lay  in  any  of  the 
waters  of  the  world.  At  midnight  the  labor  is  con- 
cluded. Hobson  has  worked  as  hard  as  any  "Jackie" 
of  them  all.  Just  before  darkness  settles  down,  the 
Dolphin  happens  to  steam  by.  Her  captain,  Henry 
Lyon,  hails  the  Merrimac  and  calls  for  Captain  Miller. 
It  has  been  supposed  that  Miller  would  accompany 
Hobson,  as,  like  a  true  sailor,  he  wanted  to  be  the  last 
to  leave  his  ship.  But  there  have  been  certain  cir- 
cumstances that  make  this  impossible,  and  the  admiral 
has  refused  to  permit  it.  Captain  Miller,  however, 
who  is  still  on  board  the  Merrimac,  answers  the  call. 

Back  from  the  Dolphin's  heroic  captain  come  these 
words : 

"I  would  give  anything  to  be  in  your  shoes  to-night. " 

And  then  follows: 

"Three  cheers  for  the  Merrimac,  Captain  Miller  and 
Lieutenant  Hobson!" 

And  the  Dolphin's  crew  respond  and  give  the  cheers 
with  a  right  good  will. 

The  night  has  come,  the  clear  night  of  the  tropics, 
the  constellations,  notable  among  them  the  exquisite 


By   ARTHUR  DUDLEY  HALL     457 

Southern  Cross,  shining  bright  in  the  translucent  sky. 
Now  all  is  in  readiness. 

"We  must  not  miss  the  harbor!"  exclaims  Hobson 
under  his  breath  to  his  devoted  little  band  of  follow- 
ers.    And  the  harbor  is  not  missed. 

The  Merrimac  heads  east,  until  its  bearings  are 
obtained,  and  then  makes  for  the  harbor,  straight  in. 
Then  the  gallant  craft,  under  the  brilliant  light  of  the 
moon,  is  discovered  by  the  enemy.  Now  comes  the 
firing.  It  is  grand  and  yet  terrible,  flashing  out  first 
from  one  side  of  the  harbor  and  then  the  other.  Now 
the  big  guns  on  the  hills  roar  forth,  and  then  the 
Vizcaya,  lying  within  the  harbor,  joins  in  with  its  deep 
and  terrific  booming.  The  troops  from  Santiago, 
warned  by  telegraph  of  the  Merrimac 's  coming  and  not 
understanding  at  all  the  import  of  it,  rush  down,  and, 
lining  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  fire  wildly  across,  killing 
each  other  with  the  cross-fire. 

Now  the  Merrimac  has  reached  the  place  she  desired, 
just  off  Estrella  Point,  at  the  very  entrance  to  the 
harbor.  Hobson  touches  the  button  and  the  torpedoes 
explode.  Almost  at  the  same  moment,  a  huge  sub- 
marine mine  catches  the  vessel  amidships,  hurling  the 
water  high  in  the  air,  and  tearing  a  great  rent  in  the 
Merrimac's  side.  But  this  is  no  disaster.  It  only 
seems  to  complete  the  purpose  for  which  she  was  sent 
to  the  entrance  of  the  harbor.  The  stern  of  the  Merri- 
mac runs  upon  Estrella  Point.  Then  she  commences 
to  sink  slowly.  She  is  across  the  channel,  but,  before 
she  settles,  a  six-pounder  tears  her  rudder  away,  and 
the  tide  begins  to  drift  her  around.  Shells  and  bullets 
whistle  all  around  her. 

Hobson  and  his  men  are  all  aft,  lying  flat  on  their 


458         The   SINKING   of  the   MERRIMAC 

faces  upon  the  deck.  Six-inch  shells  from  the  Vizcaya 
come  tearing  into  the  sinking  Merrimac,  crashing  into 
wood  and  iron,  and  passing  clear  through,  while  the 
plunging  shots  from  the  forts  smash  her  deck  into 
splinters.  It  is  a  moment  of  horror  and  suspense. 
"Not  a  man  must  move!"  cries  Hobson.  And  it  is 
only  due  to  the  splendid  discipline  of  the  men  that  all 
of  them  are  not  killed  as  the  shells  rain  over  them. 
But,  although  their  mouths  are  parched,  their  limbs 
trembling  with  fatigue,  they  lie  there  patiently,  obey- 
ing the  command  of  their  superior,  and  waiting  until 
he  shall  tell  them  to  rise.  Yet  now  and  again  one  or 
the  other  of  the  men,  lying  with  his  face  glued  to  the 
deck  and  wondering  whether  the  next  shell  will  not 
come  his  way,  asks  plaintively,  "Hadn't  we  better 
drop  off  now,  sir?" 

But  Hobson's  invariable  answer  is,  "Wait  until  day- 
light." And  he  is  right,  for  it  would  be  impossible  to 
get  the  catamaran,  by  which  they  had  arranged,  if 
possible,  to  escape,  anywhere  but  on  to  the  shore, 
where  the  Spanish  soldiers  stand  shooting,  and  Hob- 
son  hopes  that  by  daybreak  he  and  his  comrades  may 
be  recognized  and  saved.  Meanwhile,  the  grand  old 
Merrimac,  grand  in  spite  of  all  her  dilapidated  appear- 
ance, dilapidated  even  before  she  had  been  fired  upon, 
continues  sinking.  The  fire  of  the  Spanish  soldiery 
and  the  guns  of  the  Vizcaya  are  something  awful. 
Heaven  and  earth  are  shaken  by  the  battery. 

Lower  and  lower  sinks  the  Merrimac.  As  the  water 
comes  over  her  decks,  the  catamaran  floats  amid  the 
wreckage.  Hobson  and  his  men  catch  hold  of  the 
edges  and  cling  on,  their  heads  only  being  above  the 
water.     At  last  the  dawn  appears.     The  firing  ceases. 


By   ARTHUR  DUDLEY  HALL     459 

A  Spanish  launch  comes  toward  the  wreck  of  the 
Merrimac.  The  Spaniards  see  the  Americans.  Half  a 
dozen  marines  jump  up  and  point  their  rifles  at  the 
heads  which  are  only  just  above  the  water. 

"Is  there  any  officer  on  board  to  receive  a  surrender 
of  prisoners  of  war?"  shouts  Hobson. 

An  old  man  leans  out  from  under  the  awning  and 
waves  his  hand.  It  is  Admiral  Cervera.  The  marines 
lower  their  rifles  and  the  American  heroes  are  helped 
on  board.  The  Spanish  admiral  holds  out  his  hand. 
Hobson  grasps  it. 

"Bravo,  Americans!"  exclaims  Cervera,  "Yours 
was  a  brave  deed.  I  congratulate  you.  Heroism 
knows  no  country." 

When,  the  same  afternoon,  by  the  kindness  of  the 
gallant  commander-in-chief  of  the  Spanish  forces,  the 
effects  of  the  sailors  were  brought  off  in  the  boat  that 
went  under  a  flag  of  truce,  the  man  who  was  the 
spokesman  for  all  the  others  said,  "We  are  ready  to  go 
over  it  all  again  to-night,  sir." 

The  next  day,  when  it  seemed  that  perhaps  the 
remnant  of  the  Spanish  inquisition  was  to  be  applied 
to  get  information,  and  when  impertinent  questions 
were  put,  the  Spanish  sailors  and  soldiers  made  sig- 
nificant signs  with  their  hands  across  the  throat, 
muttering,  "Death  to  the  American  pigs."  But  the 
Yankees  only  laughed. 

"What  was  the  object  of  your  act?"  the  Spanish 
inquisitor  asked,  and  one  of  our  jackies,  George 
Charette,  who  spoke  French  and  was  selected  to 
respond,  replied,  "In  the  United  States  Navy  it  is  not 
the  custom  for  the  seameti  to  know  or  to  ask  to  know 
the  object  of  the  superior  officer. ' ' 


46o         The  SINKING   of  the   MERRIMAC 

And  these  men  were  simply  types  of  the  whole  fleet. 
Hurrah  for  Hobson!  Hurrah  for  his  gallant  crew! 
Hurrah  for  their  plunge  into  the  very  jaws  of  death! 
And  thank  God  that  they  all  escaped ! 


Poetry 


46t 


POETRY 

"Many  people  In  our  day,  readily  merchants  and  often 
lawyers,  say  and  repeat,  'Poetry  is  gone.'  It  is  almost  as  if  they 
said,  'There  are  no  more  roses;  spring  has  breathed  its  last;  the 
sun  has  lost  the  habit  of  rising;  roam  about  all  the  fields  of  the 
earth,  you  will  not  find  a  butterfly ;  there  is  no  more  light  in  the 
moon,  and  the  nightingale  sings  no  more;  the  lion  no  longer  roars; 
the  eagle  no  longer  soars ;  the  Alps  and  the  Pyrenees  are  gone ; 
there  are  no  more  lovely  girls  and  handsome  young  men ;  no  one 
thinks  any  more  of  the  graves ;  the  mother  no  longer  loves  her 
child;  heaven  is  quenched;  the  human  heart  is  dead.'  "—Victor 
Hugo. 

PAGB 

Kubla  Khan Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  465 

The  Revenge Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  .  467 

Pompey's  Ghost Thomas  Hood      .     .     .     .474 

Absence Frances  Anne  Kemble     .  478 

Burial  of  Lincoln Richard  Henry  Stoddard  4S0 

It  Never  Comes  Again    ....  Richard  Henry  Stoddard  ifi>2 

The  Sword  Song Charles  Theodore  Korner  483 

Departure  of  the  Swallows      .     .  Theophile  Gautier  .     .     .486 

The  Death  of  Samson    ....    John  Milton 488 

The  Lady's  Dream Thomas  Hood      ....  490 

Popping  the  Question    ....  Robert  Grant      .     .     .     .494 

The  Skeleton  in  Armour    .     .     .  Henry  W.  Longfellow    .  496 

Robin  Hood John  Keats 502 

The  Iceberg Edgar  Fawcett  ....   504 

Lenore Edgar  Allan  Poe    .     .     .507 

The  Fool's  Prayer Edward  Rowland  Sill     .  509 

Mazeppa's  Ride Geo.  Gordon,  Lord  Byron  s^i^ 

The  Erl-King /.   Wolfgang  von  Goethe  518 

The  Fancy  Concert Leigh  Hunt 520 

A  Curse  for  a  Nation      ....  Elizabeth  B.  Browning  .   523 

Rizpah Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson   .527 

Hamlet  at  the  Boston    ....  Julia  Ward  Howe  .     .     .533 

463 


464  POETRY 

PAOB 

The  Wrecker's  Bell William  Winter     .     .     .536 

Songs  from  "Robin  Hood"     .     .  Leonard  Mac Nally     .     .  541 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn   ....    /oAn  Keats 543 

Nothing  but  Leaves M.  H.  G 545 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral  .     .     .  Robert  Browning    .     .     .546 

The  Eagle's  Song Richard  Mansfield      .     .  551 

The  Complaint  of   a    Forsaken 

Indian  Woman William  Wordsworth     .  553 

Ike  Walton's  Prayer      ....  James  Whitcotnb  Riley    .  556 

Cavalry  Song Edmund  C.  Stedman   .     .  558 

The  Other  Side  of  the  Moon  .     .  Edgar  Fawcett  ....  559 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista    .     .  John  G.   Whit  tier    .     .     .561 

Cavalier  Tunes Robert  Browning   .     .     .566 

The  Old  Admiral Edmund  C.  Stedman    .     .  569 

Autumn  Tourists Anonymous 573 

Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball  William  M.  Thackeray  .  575 

The  Fugitives Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  .     .578 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Church- Yard     Thomas  Gray 581 

Lochinvar Sir  Walter  Scott     .     .    .  586 

Ships  at  Sea Robert  Barry  Coffin     .     .588 

The  Coliseum  by  Moonlight  .     .  Geo.  Gordon,  Lord  Byron  590 

The  Dirty  Old  Man William  Ailing  ham  .     .  592 

Jim  Bludso John  Hay 595 

The  Romance  of  a  Rose    .    .    .    Nora  Perry 597 

In  an  Atelier Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  .  601 

Carcassonne M.  E.   W.  Sherwood    .     .  604 

An  Ode  to  the  Assertors  of  Liberty  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  .     .  606 

The  Chambered  Nautilus  .     .     .  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  608 

Rory  O'More Samuel  Lover     ....  610 

Music  and  Words Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  612 

Lines  to  a  Friend James  Berry  Bensel    .     .614 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore     .     .     .  Robert  Southey    .     .    .     .615 

Meeting  at  Night      I          .     .     .  Robert  Browning  .      .     .  620 
Parting  at  Morning  ) 

Songs  from  "The  Princess"    .    .  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  .  621 

Pipes  and  Beer Edgar  Fawcett  .    .    .    .624 


KUBLA    KHAN:  OR,  A  VISION    IN  A   DREAM. 
By  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

IN  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  groimd 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 
A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

465 


466  KUBLA  KHAN,  or  a  VISION  in  a  DREAM 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora, 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome !  those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware !  Beware ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise, 


THE  REVENGE.  By  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNY- 
SON. 

AT  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  flutter'd  bird,  came  flying 
from  far  away : 
"Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea!    we  have  sighted  fifty- 
three!" 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard:  "  'Fore  God  I  am 

no  coward ; 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of 

gear. 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must  fly,  but  follow 

quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ;    can  we  fight  with  fifty- 
three?" 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville :  "I  know  you  are 

no  coward ; 
You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 
But  I've    ninety  men   and  more  that    are  lying  sick 

ashore. 
I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my 

Lord  Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain." 

So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that 

day. 
Till   he   melted   like   a   cloud   in   the   silent    summer 

heaven ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from  the 

land 
Very  carefully  and  slow. 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below ; 

467 


468  The   REVENGE 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not 

left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the 

Lord. 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and  to 
fight. 

And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the  Spaniard  came 
in  sight, 

With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather- 
bow. 

"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be  set." 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again:  "We  be  all  good  English 
men. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the 
devil. 

For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet." 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh 'd,  and  we  roar'd  a 

hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the 

foe. 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety-sick 

below; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left 

were  seen. 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro'  the  long  sea-lane 

between. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down  from  their 
decks  and  laugh 'd, 


By  ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON         469 

Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad 
little  craft 

Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 

By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that,  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred tons. 

And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning 
tiers  of  guns, 

Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us  like 

a  cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud. 
Four  galleons  drew  away 
From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 
And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  starboard 

lay. 
And  the  battle -thunder  broke  from  them  all. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself 
and  went 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill  con- 
tent; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us 
hand  to  hand. 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and 
musqueteers, 

And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that 
shakes  his  ears 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far 

over  the  summer  sea. 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and 

the  fifty-three. 


470  The  REVENGE 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built 
galleons  came. 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle- 
thunder  and  flame ; 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with 
her  dead  and  her  shame. 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter'd,  and  so 
could  fight  us  no  more — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the  world 
before? 

For  he  said,  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 

Though  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short  summer 

night  was  gone. 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly 

dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and  the 

head. 
And  he  said,  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out  far 

over  the  summer  sea, 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us 

all  in  a  ring ; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  fear'd  that 

we  still  could  sting, 
So  they  watch 'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain. 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 


By  ALFRED,  LORD   TENNYSON  47  ^ 

In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades    and    the    desperate 

strife ; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of  them 

stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder 

was  all  of  it  spent ; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the 

side; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 
"We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men ! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore. 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 
Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink  her,  split  her 

in  twain! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not    into    the  hands  of 

Spain!" 

And  the  gunner  said,  "Ay,  ay,"  but  the  seamen  made 

reply : 
"We  have  children,  we  have  v/ives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniards  promise,  if  we  yield,  to  let 

us  go; 
We   shall  live  to  fight    again  and  to   strike   another 

blow." 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the 

foe. 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore  him 
then. 


47*  The  REVENGE 

Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard 

caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly 

foreign  grace ; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried: 
' '  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant  man 

and  true; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do : 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I,  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  die!" 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 
And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant 

and  true. 
And    had    holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so 

cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English 

few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?    He  was  devil  for  aught  they 

knew. 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honour   down  into  the 

deep. 
And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier  alien 

crew, 
And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  her 

own; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke 

from  sleep. 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to 

moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew. 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earth- 
quake grew. 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their 

masts  and  their  flags, 


By  ALFRED,  LORD   TENNYSON  473 

And   the   whole   sea  plunged  and   fell   on   the   shot- 

shatter'd  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the    little   Revenge    herself   went  down   by  the 

island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


POMPEY'S  GHOST.     By  THOMAS  HOOD. 

"Skins  may  differ,  but  affection 
Dwells  in  white  and  black  the  same." — Cowper. 

TWAS  twelve  o'clock,  not  twelve  at  night, 
But  twelve  o'clock  at  noon; 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  bright 

And  not  the  silver  moon. 
A  proper  time  for  friends  to  call, 

Or  Pots,  or  Penny  Post; 
When,  lo !  as  Phoebe  sat  at  work. 
She  saw  her  Pompey's  ghost! 

Now  when  a  female  has  a  call 

From  people  that  are  dead. 
Like  Paris  ladies  she  receives 

Her  visitors  in  bed. 
But  Pompey's  spirit  would  not  come 

Like  spirits  that  are  white. 
Because  he  was  a  Blackamoor, 

And  wouldn't  show  at  night! 

But  of  all  unexpected  things 

That  happen  to  us  here, 
The  most  unpleasant  is  a  rise 

In  what  is  very  dear. 
So  Phoebe  screamed  an  awful  scream 

To  prove  the  seaman's  text, 
That  after  black  appearances. 

White  squalls  will  follow  next. 

•Oh,  Phoebe  dear!     Oh,  Phoebe  dear! 

Don't  go  to  scream  or  faint; 
You  think  because  I'm  black  I  am 

The  Devil,  but  I  ain't! 

474 


By  THOMAS    HOOD  475 

Behind  the  heels  of  Lady  Lambe 

I  walked  while  I  had  breath ; 
But  that  is  past,  and  I  am  now 

A-walking  after  Death ! 

"No  murder,  though,  I  come  to  tell 

By  base  and  bloody  crime ; 
So,  Phoebe  dear,  put  oflE  your  fits 

To  some  more  fitting  time. 
No  Coroner,  like  a  boatswain's  mate, 

My  body  need  attack, 
With  his  round  dozen  to  find  out 

Why  I  have  died  so  black. 

"One  Sunday,  shortly  after  tea, 

My  skin  began  to  burn 
As  if  I  had  in  my  inside 

A  heater,  like  the  urn. 
Delirious  in  the  night  I  grew, 

And  as  I  lay  in  bed. 
They  say  I  gathered  all  the  wool 

You  see  upon  my  head. 

"His  Lordship  for  his  Doctor  sent, 

My  treatment  to  begin ; — 
I  wish  that  he  had  called  him  out. 

Before  he  called  him  in ! 
For  though  to  physic  he  was  bred. 

And  passed  at  Surgeon's  Hall, 
To  make  his  post  a  sinecure 

He  never  cured  at  all ! 

"The  Doctor  looked  about  my  breast 
And  then  about  my  back, 


476  POMPEY'S   GHOST 

And  then  he  shook  his  head  and  said, 
'Your  case  looks  very  black.' 

And  first  he  sent  me  hot  cayenne 
And  then  gamboge  to  swallow, 

But  still  my  fever  would  not  turn 
To  Scarlet  or  to  Yellow ! 

"With  madder  and  with  turmeric, 

He  made  his  next  attack  ; 
But  neither  he  nor  all  his  drugs 

Could  stop  my  dying  black. 
At  last  I  got  so  sick  of  life, 

And  sick  of  being  dosed, 
One  Monday  morning  I  gave  up 

My  physic  and  the  ghost ! 

"Oh,  Phoebe  dear,  what  pain  it  was 

To  sever  every  tie ! 
You  know  black  beetles  feel  as  much 

As  giants  when  they  die. 
And  if  there  is  a  bridal  bed, 

Or  bride  of  little  worth. 
It's  lying  in  a  bed  of  mould, 

Along  with  Mother  Earth. 

"Alas!  some  happy,  happy  day, 

In  church  I  hoped  to  stand, 
And  like  a  muff  of  sable  skin 

Receive  your  lily  hand. 
But  sternly  with  that  piebald  match 

My  fate  untimely  clashes. 
For  now,  like  Pompe-double-i, 

I'm  sleeping  in  my  ashes! 


By  THOMAS    HOOD  477 

"And  now  farewell!  a  last  farewell! 

I'm  wanted  down  below, 
And  have  but  time  enough  to  add 

One  word  before  I  go — 
In  mourning  crape  and  bombazine 

Ne'er  spend  your  precious  pelf, 
Don't  go  in  black  for  me — for  I 

Can  do  it  for  myself. 

"Henceforth  within  my  grave  I  rest, 

But  Death,  who  there  inherits, 
Allowed  my  spirit  leave  to  come. 

You  seemed  so  out  of  spirits; 
But  do  not  sigh,  and  do  not  cry, 

By  grief  too  much  engrossed. 
Nor  for  a  ghost  of  color,  turn 

The  color  of  a  ghost ! 

"Again,  farewell,  my  Phoebe  dear! 

Once  more  a  last  adieu! 
For  I  must  make  myself  as  scarce 

As  swans  of  sable  hue. ' ' 
From  black  to  gray,  from  gray  to  nought 

The  shape  began  to  fade— 
And,  like  an  egg,  though  not  so  white, 

The  Ghost  was  newly  laid ! 


ABSENCE.  By  FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE. 

WHAT  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face? 
How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 

Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, — 
Weary  with  longing?     Shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked  within, 
Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes  sublime? 

O,  how  or  by  what  means  may  I  contrive 

To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near? 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here? 

I'll  tell  thee:  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy  strains ; 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  will  walk  patiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes 
pains, 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time ;  and  will  therein  strive 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 

More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  I  live. 

478 


By   FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE     479 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 

A  thousand  graces,  which  shall  thus  be  thine ; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 


BURIAL    OF   LINCOLN.     Reprinted   with  permis- 
sion.    By  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

EACE !     Let  the  long  procession  come, 

For  hark ! — the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 
The  trumpet's  wail  afar; 
And  see!  the  awful  car! 


P 


Peace !     Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannon  boom,  and  bells  toll  slow; 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar ! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 
To  honor,  all  they  can. 
The  dust  of  that  good  man! 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain: 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave ! 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars. 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 
Salute  him  once  again, 
Your  late  commander, — slain! 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall ; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge,  the  plough! 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome. 

But  in  his  modest  home. 
480 


By  RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD       483 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 

And  there  his  bones  be  laid ! 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 

And  strangers,  far  and  near. 

For  many  and  many  a  year! 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

Of  that  paternal  soul ! 


IT  NEVER  COMES  AGAIN.     Reprinted  with  per- 
mission.    By  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

THERE  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain, 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign ; 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  5^outh,  with  flying  feet, 

And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain; 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again. 


482 


s^ 


THE    SWORD    SONG.      Translation   of    Charles  T. 
Brooks.     By  CHARLES  THEODORE  KORNER. 

'WORD,  on  my  left  side  gleaming, 

What  means  thy  bright  eye's  beaming? 
It  makes  my  spirit  dance 
To  see  thy  friendly  glance. 
Hurrah ! 

"A  valiant  rider  bears  me; 
A  free-born  German  wears  me: 
That  makes  my  eye  so  bright ; 
That  is  the  sword's  delight." 
Hurrah! 

Yes,  good  sword,  I  am  free, 
And  love  thee  heartily, 
And  clasp  thee  to  my  side, 
E'en  as  a  plighted  bride. 
Hurrah ! 

"And  I  to  thee,  by  Heaven, 
My  light  steel  life  have  given; 
When  shall  the  knot  be  tied? 
When  wilt  thou  take  thy  bride?" 
Hurrah! 

The  trumpet's  solemn  warning 
Shall  hail  the  bridal  morning. 
When  cannon-thunders  wake 
Then  my  true-love  I  take. 
Hurrah ! 

"O  blessed,  blessed  meeting! 
My  heart  is  wildly  beating: 
483 


484  The  SWORD   SONG 

Come,  bridegroom,  come  for  me; 
My  garland  waiteth  thee." 
Hurrah! 

Why  in  the  scabbard  rattle, 
So  wild,  so  fierce  for  battle? 
What  means  this  restless  glow? 
My  sword,  why  clatter  so? 
Hurrah! 

"Well  may  thy  prisoner  rattle; 
My  spirit  yearns  for  battle. 
Rider,  'tis  war's  wild  glow 
That  makes  me  tremble  so." 
Hurrah ! 

Stay  in  thy  chamber  near, 
My  love ;  what  wilt  thou  here? 
Still  in  thy  chamber  bide: 
Soon,  soon  I  take  my  bride. 
Hurrah ! 

"Let  me  not  longer  wait: 
Love's  garden  blooms  in  state, 
With  roses  bloody-red, 
And  many  a  bright  death -bed." 
Hurrah ! 

Now,  then,  come  forth,  my  bride! 
Come  forth,  thou  rider's  pride! 
Come  out,  my  good  sword,  come! 
Forth  to  thy  father's  home! 
Hurrah ! 

"O,  in  the  field  to  prance 
The  glorious  wedding  dance! 


By   CHARLES  THEODORE  KORNER  485 

How,  in  the  sun's  bright  beams, 
Bride-like  the  clear  steel  gleams!" 
Hurrah ! 

Then  forward,  valiant  fighters! 
And  forward,  German  riders! 
And  when  the  heart  grows  cold, 
Let  each  his  love  infold. 
Hurrah! 

Once  on  the  left  it  hung, 
And  stolen  glances  flung; 
Now  clearly  on  your  right 
Doth  God  each  fond  bride  plight. 
Hurrah ! 

Then  let  your  hot  lips  feel 
That  virgin  cheek  of  steel ; 
One  kiss, — and  woe  betide 
Him  who  forsakes  the  bride. 
Hurrah ! 

Now  let  the  loved  one  sing ; 
Now  let  the  clear  blade  ring, 
Till  the  bright  sparks  shall  fly, 
Heralds  of  victory! 
Hurrah ! 

For  hark!  the  trumpet's  warning 
Proclaims  the  marriage  morning; 
It  dawns  in  festal  pride ; 
Hurrah,  thou  Iron  Bride! 
Hurrah ! 


DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOWS.     Translated 
from  the  French.     By  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER. 

THE  rain-drops  plash,  and  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
On  spire  and  cornice  and  mould; 
The  swallows  gather,  and  twitter  and  call, 
"We  must  follow  the  summer,  come  one,  come  all, 
For  the  winter  is  now  so  cold. ' ' 

Just  listen  awhile  to  the  wordy  war. 

As  to  whither  the  way  shall  tend, 
Says  one,  "I  know  the  skies  are  fair 
And  myriad  insects  float  in  air 

Where  the  ruins  of  Athens  stand. 

*'And  every  year  when  the  brown  leaves  fall. 

In  a  niche  of  the  Parthenon 
I  build  my  nest  on  the  corniced  wall, 
In  the  trough  of  a  devastating  ball 

From  the  Turk's  besieging  gun." 

Says  another,  "My  cosy  home  I  fit 

On  a  Smyrna  grande  cafe. 
Where  over  the  threshold  Hadjii  sit, 
And  smoke  their  pipes  and  their  coffee  sip. 

Dreaming  the  hours  away." 

Another  says,  "I  prefer  the  nave 

Of  a  temple  of  Baalbec; 
There  my  little  ones  lie  when  the  palm-trees  wave. 
And,  perching  near  on  the  architrave, 

I  fill  each  open  beak. ' ' 

"Ah!"  says  the  last,  "I  build  my  nest 

Far  up  on  the  Nile's  green  shore, 
Where  Memnon  raises  his  stony  crest, 

486 


By  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  487 

And  turns  to  the  sun  as  he  leaves  his  rest, 
But  greets  him  with  song  no  more. 

"In  his  ample  neck  is  a  niche  so  wide, 

And  withal  so  deep  and  free, 
A  thousand  swallows  their  nests  can  hide. 
And  a  thousand  little  ones  rear  beside, — 

Then  come  to  the  Nile  with  me. ' ' 

They  go,  they  go,  to  the  river  and  plain, 

To  ruined  city  and  town. 
They  leave  me  alone  with  the  cold  again, 
Beside  the  tomb  where  my  joys  are  lain, 

With  hope  like  the  swallows  flown. 


THE     DEATH     OF     SAMSON.       From    "Samson 
Agonistes."     By  JOHN  MILTON. 

MESSENGER.     Occasions  drew  me  early  to  this 
city; 
And  as  the  gates  I  enter'd  with  sun-rise, 
The  morning  trumpets  festival  proclaim 'd 
Through  each  high  street:  little  I  had  dispatch't, 
When  all  abroad  was  rumour 'd  that  this  day 
Samson  should  be  brought  forth  to  show  the  people 
Proof  of  his  mighty  strength  in  feats  and  games; 
I  sorrow 'd  at  his  captive  state,  but  minded 
Not  to  be  absent  at  that  spectacle. 
The  building  was  a  spacious  theatre 
Half-round,  on  two  main  pillars  vaulted  high, 
With  seats  where  all  the  lords,  and  each  degree 
Of  sort,  might  sit  in  order  to  behold; 
The   other  side  was  op'n,  where  the  throng 
On  banks  and  scaffolds  under  sky  might  stand; 
I  among  these  aloof  obscurely  stood. 
The  feast  and  noon  grew  high,  and  sacrifice 
Had  fill'd  their  hearts  with  mirth,  high  cheer,  and  wine, 
When  to  their  sports  they  turn'd.     Immediately 
Was  Samson  as  a  public  servant  brought, 
In  their  state  livery  clad;  before  him  pipes 
And  timbrels,  on  each  side  went  armed  guards, 
Both  horse  and  foot  before  him  and  behind. 
Archers,  and  slingers,  cataphracts  and  spears. 
At  sight  of  him  the  people  with  a  shout 
Rifted  the  air,  clamouring  their  god  with  praise. 
Who  had  made  their  dreadful  enemy  their  thrall. 
He  patient  but  undaunted  where  they  led  him, 
Came  to  the  place,  and  what  was  set  before  him 
Which  without  help  of  eye,  might  be  assay'd, 
To  heave,  pull,  draw,  or  break,  he  still  perform 'd 

488 


By  JOHN  MILTON  489 

All  with  incredible,  stupendious  force, 

None  daring  to  appear  antagonist. 

At  length  for  intermission  sake  they  led  him 

Between  the  pillars;  he  his  guide  requested, 

(For  so  from  such  as  nearer  stood  we  heard) 

As  over-tir'd,  to  let  him  lean  a  while 

With  both  his  arms  on  those  two  massy  pillars 

That  to  the  arched  roof  gave  main  support. 

He  unsuspicious  led  him ;  which  when  Samson 

Felt  in  his  arms,  with  head  a  while  inclin'd. 

And  eyes  fast  fixt  he  stood,  as  one  who  pray'd, 

Or  some  great  matter  in  his  mind  revolv'd. 

At  last  with  head  erect  thus  cri'd  aloud. 

"Hitherto,  lords,  what  your  commands  impos'd 

I  have  perform'd,  as  reason  was,  obeying, 

Not  without  wonder  or  delight  beheld. 

Now  of  my  own  accord  such  other  trial 

I  mean  to  show  you  of  my  strength,  yet  greater. 

As  with  amaze  shall  strike  all  who  behold." 

This  utter'd,  straining  all  his  nerves  he  bow'd; 

As  with  the  force  of  winds  and  waters  pent. 

When  mountains  tremble,  those  two  massy  pillars 

With  horrible  convulsion  to  and  fro 

He  tugg'd,  he  shook,  till  down  they  came  and  drew 

The  whole  roof  after  them,  with  burst  of  thunder 

Upon  the  heads  of  all  who  sat  beneath, 

Lords,  ladies,  captains,  counsellors,  or  priests. 

Their  choice  nobility  and  flower,  not  only 

Of  this,  but  each  Philistian  city  round. 

Met  from  all  parts  to  solemnize  this  feast. 

Samson  with  these  immixt,  inevitably 

Puird  down  the  same  destruction  on  himself; 

The  vulgar  only  scap'd  who  stood  without. 


THE  LADY'S  DREAM.  By  THOMAS  HOOD. 

THE  lady  lay  in  her  bed, 
Her  couch  so  warm  and  soft, 
But  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken  still ; 

For,  turning  often  and  oft 
From  side  to  side,  she  muttered  and  moaned, 
And  tossed  her  arms  aloft. 

At  last  she  startled  up, 

And  gazed  on  the  vacant  air, 
With  a  look  of  awe,  as  if  she  saw 

Some  dreadful  phantom  there — 
And  then  in  the  pillow  she  buried  her  face 

From  visions  ill  to  bear. 

The  very  curtain  shook. 

Her  terror  was  so  extreme ; 
And  the  light  that  fell  on  the  broidered  quilt 

Kept  a  tremulous  gleam ; 
And  her  voice  was  hollow,  and  shook  as  she  cried ; 

"O,  me!  that  awful  dream! 

"That  weary,  weary  walk, 

In  the  church-yard's  dismal  ground! 

And  those  horrible  things,  with  shady  wings, 
That  came  and  flitted  round, — 

Death,  death,  and  nothing  but  death. 
In  every  sight  and  sound! 

"And,  O!  those  maidens  young. 

Who  wrought  in  that  dreary  room. 
With  figures  drooping  and  spectres  thin. 

And  cheeks  without  a  bloom ; — 
And  the  voice  that  cried,  '  For  the  pomp  of  pride. 

We  haste  to  an  early  tomb ! 

490 


By  THOMAS  HOOD  491 

"  'For  the  pomp  and  pleasure  of  pride, 

We  toil  like  Afric  slaves, 
And  only  to  earn  a  home  at  last, 

Where  yonder  cypress  waves;' 
And  then  they  pointed — I  never  saw 

A  ground  so  full  of  graves  \ 

"And  still  the  coffins  came, 
With  their  sorrowful  trains  and  slow ; 

Coffin  after  coffin  still, 

A  sad  and  sickening  show ; 

From  grief  exempt,  I  never  had  dreamt 
Of  such  a  world  of  woe ! 

"Of  the  hearts  that  daily  break. 

Of  the  tears  that  hourly  fall, 
Of  the  many,  many  troubles  of  life. 

That  grieve  this  earthly  ball — 
Disease,  and  Hunger,  and  Pain,  and  Want, 

But  now  I  dreamt  of  them  all ! 

"For  the  blind  and  the  cripple  were  there, 

And  the  babe  that  pined  for  bread. 
And  the  houseless  man,  and  the  widow  poor 

Who  begged — to  bury  the  dead; 
The  naked,  alas!  that  I  might  have  clad, 

The  famished  I  might  have  fed! 

"The  sorrow  I  might  have  soothed, 

And  the  unregarded  tears ; 
For  many  a  thronging  shape  was  there, 

From  long-forgotten  years, — 
Ay,  even  the  poor  rejected  Moor, 

Who  raised  my  childish  fears! 


492  The  LADY'S   DREAM 

"Each  pleading  look,  that  long  ago 

I  scanned  with  a  heedless  eye, 
Each  face  was  gazing  as  plainly  there 

As  when  I  passed  it  by : 
Woe,  woe  for  me  if  the  past  should  be 

Thus  present  when  I  die ! 

"No  need  of  sulphureous  lake, 

No  need  of  fiery  coal, 
But  only  that  crowd  of  human  kind 

Who  wanted  pity  and  dole — 
In  everlasting  retrospect — 

Will  wring  my  sinful  soul ! 

"Alas!  I  have  walked  through  life 

Too  heedless  where  I  trod; 
Nay,  helping  to  trample  my  fellow-worm, 

And  fill  the  burial  sod — 
Forgetting  that  even  the  sparrow  falls 

Not  unmarked  of  God ! 

"I  drank  the  richest  draughts; 

And  ate  whatever  is  good — 
Fish,  and  flesh,  and  fowl,  and  fruit, 

Supplied  my  hungry  mood ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  wretched  ones 

That  starve  for  want  of  food ! 

r 

"I  dressed  as  the  noble  dress, 

In  cloth  of  silver  and  gold. 
With  silk  and  satin,  and  costly  furs. 

In  many  an  ample  fold; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  naked  limbs 

That  froze  with  winter's  cold. 


By  THOMAS  HOOD  493 

"The  wounds  I  might  have  healed! 

The  human  sorrow  and  smart! 
And  yet  it  never  was  in  my  soul 

To  play  so  ill  a  part ; 
But  evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 

As  well  as  want  of  heart!' 

She  clasped  her  fervent  hands, 

And  the  tears  began  to  stream ; 
Large,  and  bitter,  and  fast  they  fell, 

Remorse  was  so  extreme ; 
And  yet,  O,  yet,  that  many  a  dame 

Would  dream  the  Lady's  Dream! 


POPPING  THE  QUESTION.   By  ROBERT  GRANT. 

I   KNEW   by  his    looks    what  he'd    come   for       I 
plainly  had  seen  from  the  first 
It  must  come  to  this  sooner  or  later,  and  I'd  made  up 

my  mind  for  the  worst. 
So  I  hid  myself  under  the  curtains,  where  the  loving 

pair  couldn't  see  me, 
In  order  to  watch  their  proceedings,  and  hear  what  he 
said  unto  she. 

I  saw  he  was  fearfully  nervous,  that  in  fact  he  was 

suffering  pain, 
By  the  way  that  he  fussed  with  his  collar  and  poked 

all  the  chairs  with  his  cane ; 
That  he  blushed;    that  he  wouldn't  look  at  her,  but 

kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
And  took  the  unusual    precaution  of  taking  his  seat 

near  the  door. 

He  began,  "It  is — er — er — fine  weather, — remarkable 

weather  for  May. ' ' 
"Do  you  think  so?"  said  she;  "it is  raining." — "Oh,  so 

it  is  raining  to-day. 
I  meant  'twill  be  pleasant  to-morrow,"  he  stammered: 

"er — er — do  you  skate?" 
"Oh,  yes!"  she  replied,  "at  the  season;  but  isn't  May 

rather  too  late?" 

The  silence  that  followed  was  awful;  he  continued,  "I 

see  a  sweet  dove," 
('Twas  only  an  innocent  sparrow,  but  blind  are  the 

eyes  of  true  love,) 
"A  dove  of  most  beautiful  plumage  on  the  top  of  that 

wide-spreading  tree, 

494 


By  ROBERT  GRANT  495 

Which  reminds  me," — she  sighed, — "O,  sweet  maiden! 
which  reminds  me,  dear  angel,  of  thee." 

Her  countenance  changed  in  a  moment;  there  followed 
a  terrible  pause; 

I  felt  that  the  crisis  was  coming,  and  hastily  dropped 

on  all  fours, 
In  order  to  see  the  thing  better.     His  face  grew  as 

white  as  a  sheet, 
He  gave  one  spasmodical  effort,  and  lifelessly  dropped 

at  her  feet. 

She  said — what  she  said  I  won't  tell  you.     She  raised 

the  poor  wretch  from  the  ground. 
I  drew  back  my  head  for  an  instant.     Good  heavens ! 

Oh,  what  was  that  sound? 
I  eagerly  peered  through  the  darkness, — for  twilight 

had  made  the  room  dim, — 
And  plainly  perceived  it  was  kissing, — and  kissing  not 

all  done  by  him. 

I  burst  into  loud  fits  of  laughter :  I  know  it  was  terribly 

mean. 
Still  I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation  to  appear  for  a 

while  on  the  scene ; 
But  she  viewed  me  with  perfect  composure,   as  she 

kissed  him  again  with  a  smile. 
And  remarked,  'twixt  that  kiss  and  the  next  one,  that 

"she'd  known  I  was  there  all  the  while." 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOUR.  Copyright, 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company.  Reprinted  with  per- 
mission. By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONG- 
FELLOW. 

SPEAK!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armour  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms. 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?" 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"I  was  a  Viking  old! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  I 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 
Tamed  the  ger-falcon; 

496 


By    HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW    497 

And,  with  my  slcates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew. 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing. 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 


498  The  SKELETON  in  ARMOUR 

Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast. 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chaunting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand. 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed. 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind  gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly. 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn. 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW      499 

'She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded? 

''Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen! — 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving-  his  armfed  hand. 
Saw  we  the  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast. 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail. 
Death!  was  the  helmsman's  hail 

Death  without  quarter! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water ! 


50O  The  SKELETON  in  ARMOUR 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt. 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane. 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  sea-ward. 

"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another! 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sun-light  hateful. 
In  the  vast  forest  here. 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful! 


By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW      501 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!" 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 


N' 


ROBIN  HOOD.     (To  a  Friend.)    By  JOHN  KEATS. 

O !  those  days  are  gone  away, 

And  their  hours  are  old  and  grey, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years: 
Many  times  have  Winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more. 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh. 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan. 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent: 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale, 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale, 

502 


By  JOHN  KEATS  503 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn ; 
Gone,  the  tough  belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "gren6  shawe"; 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  tufted  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze : 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fairn  beneath  the  dock-yard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money! 

So  it  is ;  yet  let  us  sing 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string! 
Honor  to  the  bugle-horn ! 
Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn! 
Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green! 
Honor  to  the  archer  keen! 
Honor  to  tight  Little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon ! 
Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood! 
Honor  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


THE  ICEBERG.  From  "Fantasy  and  Passion." 
Copyright,  1898,  by  Roberts  Brothers.  Reprinted 
with  permission.     By  EDGAR  FAWCETT. 

WHERE    the    keen  wan  peaks,   in   frigid    pride 
unbending, 
Jut  up  against  the  abysmal  blue  of  night ; 
When  the  red  aurora,  at  the  world's  wild  ending, 

Opens  in  heaven  its  awful  fan  of  light, 
A  part  of  all  the  inviolate  peace  around  him. 

Calm  amid  mighty  quietudes  did  he  rest. 
The  fierce  cold  for  a  manacle  that  bound  him, 
The  arctic  stars  to  sparkle  on  his  crest. 

Here  silence,  like  a  monarch,  reigned  immensely, 

The  quintessence  of  cold  was  here,  no  less, 
Each  utter  as  before  God  spake  intensely 

And  visible  things  leapt  out  from  nothingness. 
A  land  wherewith  no  living  sign  was  blended, 

A  white  monotony  of  weird  device ; 
One  towering  boreal  torpor,  chaste  and  splendid, 

One  monstrous  immobility  of  ice! 

But  when  light  woke  within  that  bleak  heaven,  grandly 

To  illume  pale  polar  summits,  range  on  range. 
Then  blindly  through  his  glacial  soul  yet  blandly 

He  felt  the  movement  of  mysterious  change. 
He  seemed  to  have  heard  across  vast  ocean-reaches 

A  summoning  voice  from  equatorial  calms. 
From  languorous  tropic  bowers  and  lucid  beaches. 

From    blossoming   headlands   and   high    plumes   of 
palms ! 

A  voice  compelling  and  a  voice  commanding. 

Yet  sweet  as  flute-notes  near  still  purple  seas, 
Strange  beyond  speech  and  strong  beyond  withstanding, 

504 


By  EDGAR  FAWCETT  505 

Yet  soft  withal  as  tremulous  airs  in  trees. 
A  voice  of  such  deep  charm  that  while  he  wondered 

Plungingly  seaward  his  huge  frame  he  bent, 
And  all  its  proud  enormity  was  sundered 

From  all  its  fetters  of  encompassment. 

Then  he  went  down  superbly  over  distance 

Of  mad  uproarious  surges,  height  on  height, 
That  hurled  tempestuous  onslaughts  of  resistance 

Round  his  serene  magnificence  of  might. 
Then  he  went  down  across  the  unknown  sea-spaces, 

A  spot  of  radiance  on  their  billowy  whirl, 
Scintillant  with  the  sun's  most  dazzling  graces, 

Or  touched  by  moonbeams  to  phantasmal  pearl ! 

One  chill  wind,  like  a  breath  of  death,  ran  blowing 

Incessantly  along  his  path  austere, 
And  far  before  the  grandeur  of  his  going. 

Like  birds  the  little  vessels  fled  in  fear. 
Green  flashed  the  glassy  bastions  whence  transcendent 

His  frosted  pinnacles  blazed  out  above. 
While  in  colossal  crystal  calm  resplendent. 

Superbly  he  went  down  to  meet  his  love! 

But  journeying  thus,  too  thrilled  for  all  confusion 

Of  boisterous  wave  or  bluff  blast  to  annoy, 
He  had  lessened  with  insidious  diminution. 

He  had  wasted  and  not  known  it  in  his  joy. 
For  through  him  there  had  pulsed  a  fire  of  yearning 

'Twas  ruin  although  'twas  rapture  to  have  known, 
And  love  within  his  frozen  life  lay  burning. 

Like  a  ruby  under  fathoms  of  stern  stone ! 


5o6  The  ICEBERG 

And  so  while  passion  in  his  dumb  breast  kindled 

A  lordlier  larger  impulse  to  adore, 
The  more  his  eminent  glories  waned  and  dwindled 

As  that  ethereal  voice  allured  the  more. 
And  then  with  bitterest  pangs  he  felt  the  fleeting 

Of  all  his  luminous  loftiness  and  pride, 
And  shuddered  with  the  dark  thought  of  not  meeting 

That  vague  invisible  love  before  he  died! 

And  still  the  summoning  voice  came  sweet  and  eager, 

Though  touched  with  semitones  of  divine  regret, 
And  hourly  growing  meagre  and  more  meagre, 

He  journeyed  on,  desiring,  yearning  yet!  .   .  . 
Till  now  he  vanished  utterly,  and  the  tender 

Lulled  waves  of  tropic  ocean  smiled  above 
Him  that  in  all  the  morning  of  his  splendor 

Superbly  had  gone  down  to  meet  his  love ! 


LENORE.     By  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

AH!   broken  is  the  golden  bowl!    the   spirit  flown 
forever ! 
Let  the  bell  toll ! — a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the  Stygian 

river ; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear? — weep  now  or 

never  more ! 
See!    on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love, 

Lenore! 
Come !  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the  funeral  song  be 

sung! — 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 

young — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 

young. 

"Wretches!  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated  her 
for  her  pride. 

And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her — 
that  she  died ! 

Hov/  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read? — the  requiem  how 
be  sung 

By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye, — by  yours,  the  slan- 
derous tongue 

That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died  so 
young?" 

Peccavimus;    but  rave  not  thus!    and  let  a  Sabbath 

song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong! 
The  sweet   Lenore  hath  "gone  before,"  with   Hope, 

that  flew  beside. 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride — 

507 


5o8  LENORE 

For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair — the  death  upon  her 

eyes. 
"Avaunt!  to-night  my  heart  is  light.     No  dirge  will  I 

upraise. 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old 

days! 
Let  no  bell  toll ; — lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid  its  hallowed 

mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float — up  from  the 

damned  Earth. 
To  friends  above,   from  fiends  below,  the  indignant 

ghost  is  riven — 
From    Hell   unto   a  high    estate  far  up    within    the 

Heaven — 
From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the 

King  of  Heaven. ' ' 


THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER.  Copyright,  by  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By 
EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 

THE  royal  feast  was  done;  the  king 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care. 
And  to  his  jester  cried,  "Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer!' 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before: 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 

Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool; 
His  pleading  voice  arose:  "O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool ; 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin ;  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool! 

"  'Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay; 

'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 
We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

'These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire. 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
\mong  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 
Who  knows  how  shai-p  it  pierced  and  stung? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  wrung? 

5oq 


5IO  The  FOOL'S  PRAYER 

'Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 
But  for  our  blunders — oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  thou,  O  Lord 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! ' ' 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose 
The  king,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool!" 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE.   By  GEORGE  GORDON, 
LORD  BYRON. 

BRING  forth  the  horse !  '—the  horse  was  brought, 
In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed. 
Who  looked  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs;  but  he  was  wild. 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled, — 

'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led ; 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash, — 
Away! — away! — and  on  we  dash! 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

"Away! — away! — My  breath  was  gone,— 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on ; 
'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day. 
And  on  he  foamed, — away! — away! — 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes. 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout ; 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrenched  my  head. 

And  snapped  the  cord  which  to  the  mane 

Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 


5"  MAZEPPA'S  RIDE 

Howled  back  my  curse ;  but  midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed, 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed: 

"Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 

All  human  dwellings  left  behind; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  checkered  with  the  northern  light : 
Town, — village, — none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent. 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black ; 

And,  save  the  scarce-seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold. 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old. 

"O,  how  I  wished  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish — if  it  must  be  so — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe ! 
When  first  my  courser's  race  begun 
I  wished  the  goal  already  won; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt !  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain  roe; 

"The  wood  was  passed;  'twas  more  than  noon, 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June;  I 

Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold, — 

Prolonged  endurance  tames  the  bold;  | 

I 


By   GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  513 

"What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk? 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  rolled  round, 

I  seemed  to  sink  upon  the  ground; 

But  erred,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 

My  heart  turned  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 

And  throbbed  awhile,  then  beat  no  more ; 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes. 

Which  saw  no  farther;  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below; 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 
When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee, 
At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm. 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 

"My  thoughts  came  back:  where  was  I?     Cold 

And  numb  and  giddy :  pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold, 
And  throb  by  throb, — till  grown  a  pang 

Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse. 

My  blood  reflowed,  though  thick  and  chill; 
My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang ; 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 
Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh ; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky. 
Studded  with  stars; — it  is  no  dream; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream! 


514  MAZEPPA'S  RIDE 

The  bright,  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 
And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 
To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 
And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffened  limbs  were  rebaptized, 
My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 
And  onward  we  advance !  .  .  . 

"With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane. 
And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank. 

The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 
Up  the  repelling  bank. 

We  gain  the  top ;  a  boundless  plain 

Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 

And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems. 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams. 

To  stretch  beyond  the  sight; 

And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white. 
Or  scattered  spot  of  dusky  green. 

In  masses  broke  into  the  light 

As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right.   .  .  . 

"Onward  we  went, — but  slack  and  slow; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 

All  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  tameness  naught  availed, — 
My  limbs  were  bound ;  my  force  had  failed, 


By   GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  515 

Perchance  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  efforts  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied, 

But  still  it  was  in  vain ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er. 

Which  but  prolonged  their  pain. 

"At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs? 
No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop ;  I  see  them  come ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance !  .   .  .  . 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea. 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet; 
The  sight  renerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh. 

He  answered  and  then  fell : 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable. 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done! 
On  came  the  troop, — they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong: 
They  stop,— they  start,— they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there. 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound. 


5i6  MAZEPPA'S  RIDE 

Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seemed  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide ; 
They  snort,  they  foam,  neigh,  swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Linked  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch. 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me,  and  there  we  lay 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 
I  little  deemed  another  day 
Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

"And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 
I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round. 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 

"I  woke. — Where  was  I? — Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me? 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye. 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-haired  and  tall. 


By   GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  517 

Sate  watching-  by  the  cottage  wall ; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 
I  gazed  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be, — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast.  .  .  . 

"She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire, — 
What  need  of  more? — I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain, — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut, — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again, — 
Me, — one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain. 
Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness. 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone, 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne, — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess?" 


THE  ERL-KING.     Translated  by  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
By  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE. 

OWHO  rides  by  night  thro'  the  woodland  so  wild? 
It  is  the  fond  father  embracing-  his  child, 
And  close  the  boy  nestles  within  his  loved  arm, 
To  hold  himself  fast,  and  to  keep  himself  warm. 

"O  father,  see  yonder!  see  yonder!"  he  says; 
"My  boy,  upon  what  dost  thou  fearfully  gaze?" — 
"O,  'tis  the  Erl-King  with  his  crown  and  his  shroud." 
"No,  my  son,  it  is  but  a  dark  wreath  of  the  cloud." 

"O,  come  and  go  with  me,  thou  loveliest  child; 
By  many  a  gay  sport  shall  thy  time  be  beguiled ; 
My  mother  keeps  for  thee  full  many  a  fair  toy. 
And  many  a  fine  flower  shall  she  pluck  for  my  boy." 

"O  father,  my  father,  and  did  you  not  hear 
The  Erl-King  whisper  so  low  in  my  ear?" — 
"Be  still,  my  heart's  darling — my  child,  be  at  ease; 
It  was  but  the  wild  blast  as  it  sung  thro'  the  trees." 

"O  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  thou  loveliest  boy? 
My  daughter  shall  tend  thee  with  care  and  with  joy ; 
She  shall  bear  thee  so  lightly  thro'  wet  and  thro'  wild, 
And  press  thee,  and  kiss  thee,  and  sing  to  my  child." 

"O  father,  my  father,  and  saw  you  not  plain, 

The    Erl-King's  pale    daughter  glide  past  thro'    the 

rain?"— 
"O  yes,  my  loved  treasure,  I  knew  it  full  soon; 
It  was  the  gray  willow  that  danced  to  the  moon." 

"O,  come  and  go  with  me,  no  longer  delay, 
Or  else,  silly  child,  I  will  drag  thee  away." — 
"O  father!  O  father!  now,  now  keep  your  hold, 
The  Erl-King  has  seized  me — his   grasp  is  so  cold !" 

518 


By  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE    519 

Sore  trembled  the  father;  he  spurr'd  thro'  the  wild, 
Clasping  close  to  his  bosom  his  shuddering  child- 
He  reaches  his  dwelling  in  doubt  and  in  dread, 
But,  clasp'd  to  his  bosom,  the  infant  was  dead! 


THE  FANCY  CONCERT.     By  LEIGH  HUNT. 

THEY    talked  of  their    concerts,  and  Cramers  and 
Spohrs, 
And  pitied  the  fever  that  kept  me  in-doors, 
And  I  smiled  in  my  thought  and  said,  "O  ye  sweet 

fancies, 
And  animal  spirits,  that  still  in  your  dances 
Come  bringing  me  visions  to  comfort  my  care, 
Now  fetch  me  a  concert — imparadise  air. ' ' 

Then  a  wind  like  a  storm  out  of  Eden  came  pouring 
Fierce  into  my  room,  and  made  tremble  the  flooring 
And  filled  with  a  sudden  impetuous  trample 
Of  heaven,  its  corners;  and  swelled  it  to  ample 
Dimensions  to  breathe  in,  and  space  for  all  power; 
Which  falling  as  suddenly,  lo!  the   sweet  flower 
Of  an  exquisite  fairy- voice  opened  its  blessing; 
And  ever  and  aye,  to  its  constant  addressing. 
There  came,  falling  in  with  it,  each  in  the  last. 
Flageolets  one  by  one,  and  flutes  blowing  more  fast, 
And  hautboys  and  clarionets,  acrid  of  reed. 
And  the  violin,  smoothlier  sustaining  the  speed 
As  the  rich  tempest  gathered,  and  buz-ringing  moons 
Of  tambours,  and  deep  basses,  and  giant  bassoons, 
And  the  golden  trombone,  that  darteth  its  tongue 
Like  a  bee  of  the  gods;  nor  was  wanting  the  gong. 

Then  lo!    was    performed    my  immense   will    and 
pleasure, 
And  orchestras  rose  to  an  exquisite  measure; 
And  lights  were  about  me,  and  odors;  and  set 
Were  the  lovers  of  music,  all  wondrously  met; 
And  then  with  their  singers  in  lily-white  stoles, 

520 


By  LEIGH  HUNT  521 

And  themselves  clad  in  rose-color,  in  came  the  souls 

Of  all  the  composers  accounted  divinest, 

And   with  their  own  hands   did  they  play  me  their 

finest. 
Oh !  truly  was  Italy  heard  then  and  Germany, 
Melody's  heart,  and  the  rich  brain  of  harmony: 
Fresh  Paisiello,  whose  airs  are  as  new. 
Though  we  know  them  by  heart,  as  May-blossoms  and 

dew; 
And  Nature's  twin  son,  Pergolese ;  and  Bach, 
Old  father  of  fugues,  with  his  endless  fine  talk; 
And  Gllick,  who  saw  gods,  and  the  learned  sweet  feel- 
ing 
Of  Haydn;  and  Winter,  whose  sorrows  are  healing; 
And  airy  Correlli,  whose  bowing  seems  made 
For  a  hand  with  a  jewel;  and  Handel  arrayed 
In  Olympian  thunders ;  vast  lord  of  the  spheres. 
Yet  pious  himself,  with  his  blindness  in  tears; 
A  lover  withal,  and  a  conq'ror,  whose  marches 
Bring  demigods  under  victorious  arches; 
Then  Arne  sweet  and  tricksome ;  and  masterly  Purcell, 
Half  priest  and  half  prince;  and  Mozart  universal, 
But  chiefly  with  exquisite  gallantries  found. 
With  a  grove,  in  the  distance,  of  holier  sound ; 
Nor  forgot  was  thy  dulcitude,  loving  Sacchini ; 
Nor  love,  young  and  dying,  in  shape  of  Bellini; 
Nor  Weber,  nor  Himmel,  nor  mirth's  sweetest  name, 
Cimarosa;  much  less  the  great  organ-voiced  fame 
Of  Marcello,  that  hushed  the  Venetian  sea ; 
And  strange  was  the  shout,  when  it  wept  hearing  thee, 
Thou  soul  full  of  grace  as  of  grief,  my  heart-cloven, 
My  poor,  my  most  rich,  my  all-feeling  Beethoven. 


522  The  FANCY  CONCERT 

So  now  we  had  chorus  and  now  we  had  song, 
Now  instruments  hurrying  the  warble  along; 
Now  pauses  that  pampered  resumption ;  and  now — 
But  who  shall  describe  what  was  played  us,  or  how? 
'T was  wonder,  'twas  transport,  humility,  pride; 
'Twas  the  heart  of  the  mistress  that  sat  by  one's  side; 
'Twas  the  Graces  invisible,  moulding  the  air 
Into  all  that  is  shapely,  and  lovely,  and  fair, 
And  running  our  fancies  their  tenderest  rounds 
Of  endearments  and  luxuries,  turned  into  sounds; 
'Twas  argument  even,  the  logic  of  tones; 
'Twas    mem'ry,    'twas    wishes,    'twas  laughter,    'twas 

moans ; 
'Twas  pity  and  love,  in  pure  impulse  obeyed; 
'Twas  the  breath  of  the  stuff  of  which  passion  is  made. 
And  these  are  the  concerts  I  have  at  my  will ; 
Then  dismiss  them,  and  laugh  at  your  puffs  and  your 

"bill." 


A   CURSE    FOR    A    NATION.      By    ELIZABETH 
BARRETT   BROWNING. 

PROLOGUE. 

I   HEARD  an  angel  speak  last  night, 
And  he  said,  "Write! 
Write  a  nation's  curse  for  me. 
And  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea.' 

I  faltered,  taking  up  the  word: 

"Not  so,  my  lord! 
If  curses  must  be,  choose  another 
To  send  thy  curse  against  my  brother. 

"For  I  am  bound  by  gratitude. 

By  love  and  blood, 
To  brothers  of  mine  across  the  sea. 
Who  stretch  out  kindly  hands  to  me." 

"Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
From  the  summits  of  love  a  curse  is  driven, 
As  lightning  is  from  the  tops  of  heaven." 

"Not  so,"  I  answered.   "Evermore 

My  heart  is  sore 
For  my  own  land's  sins:  for  little  feet 
Of  children  bleeding  along  the  street: 

' '  For  parked-up  honors  that  gainsay 

The  right  of  way : 
For  almsgiving  through  a  door  that  is 
Not  open  enough  for  two  friends  to  kiss: 

"For  love  of  freedom  which  abates 

Beyond  the  Straits: 
For  patriot  virtue  starved  to  vice  on 
Self-praise,  self-interest,  and  suspicion: 

523 


524  A  CURSE  /or  a  NATION 

"For  an  oligarchic  parliament, 

And  bribes  well-meant. 
What  curse  to  another  land  assign, 
When  heavy-souled  for  the  sins  of  mine?" 

"Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
Because  thou  hast  strength  to  see  and  hate 
A  foul  thing  done  within  thy  gate. ' ' 

"Not  so,"  I  answered  once  again. 

"To  curse,  choose  men. 
For  I,  a  woman,  have  only  known 
How  the  heart  melts  and  the  tears  itin  down. " 

"Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
Some  women  weep  and  curse,  I  say 
(And  no  one  marvels,)  night  and  day. 

"And  thou  shalt  take  their  part  to-night. 

Weep  and  write. 
A  curse  from  the  depths  of  womanhood 
Is  very  salt,  and  bitter,  and  good." 

So  thus  I  wrote  and  mourned  indeed, 

What  all  may  read. 
And  thus,  as  was  enjoined  on  me, 
I  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea. 

THE     CURSE. 

I. 

Because  ye  have  broken  your  own  chain 

With  the  strain 
Of  brave  men  climbing  a  nation's  height, 
Yet  thence  bear  down  with  brand  and  thong 


By  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING    525 

On  souls  of  others, — for  this  wrong 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Because  yourselves  are  standing  straight 

In  the  state 
Of  Freedom's  foremost  acolyte, 
Yet  keep  calm  footing  all  the  time 
On  writhing  bond-slaves, — for  this  crime 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Because  ye  prosper  in  God's  name, 

With  a  claim 
To  honor  in  the  old  world's  sight, 
Yet  do  the  fiend's  work  perfectly 
In  strangling  martyrs, — for  this  lie 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

II. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  kings  conspire 
Round  the  people's  smouldering  fire, 

And,  warm  for  your  part. 
Shall  never  dare — O  shame ! 
To  utter  the  thought  into  flame 

Which  burns  at  your  heart. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  nations  strive 
With  the  bloodhounds,  die  or  survive, 

Drop  faint  from  their  jaws, 
Or  throttle  them  backward  to  death, 
And  only  under  your  breath 

Shall  favor  the  cause. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  strong  men  draw 
The  nets  of  feudal  law 


526  A  CURSE  for  a  NATION 

To  strangle  the  weak, 
And,  counting  the  sin  for  a  sin, 
Your  soul  shall  be  sadder  within 

Than  the  word  ye  shall  speak. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  good  men  are  praying  erect 
That  Christ  may  avenge  his  elect 

And  deliver  the  earth, 
The  prayer  in  your  ears,  said  low. 
Shall  sound  like  the  tramp  of  a  foe 

That's  driving  you  forth. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  wise  men  give  you  their  praise, 
They  shall  pause  in  the  heat  of  the  phrase, 

As  if  carried  too  far. 
When  ye  boast  your  own  charters  kept  true, 
Ye  shall  blush ;— for  the  thing  which  ye  do 

Derides  what  ye  are. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  fools  cast  taunts  at  your  gate, 
Your  scorn  ye  shall  somewhat  abate 

As  ye  look  o'er  the  wall, 
For  your  conscience,  tradition,  and  name 
Explode  with  a  deadlier  blame 

Than  the  worst  of  them  all. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 
Go,  wherever  ill  deeds  shall  be  done, 
Go,  plant  your  flag  in  the  sun 

Beside  the  ill-doers ! 
And  recoil  from  clenching  the  curse 
Of  God's  witnessing  Universe 

With  a  curse  of  yours. 

THIS  is  the  curse.     Write. 


RIZPAH.     By  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON. 

WAILING,  wailing,  wailing,  the   wind  over  land 
and  sea — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  "O  mother,  come  out 

to  me. ' ' 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he  knows  that  I 

cannot  go? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and  the  full  moon 
stares  at  the  snow. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear ;  they  would  spy  us  out  of 

the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the  storm  rushing 

over  the  down. 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am  led  by  the 

creak  of  the  chain. 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find  myself 

drenched  with  the  rain. 

Anything  fallen  again?  nay — what  was  there  left  to 

fall? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  number'd  the  bones; 

I  have  hidden  them  all. 
What  am  I  saying?  and  what  are  you?  do  you  come  as 

a  spy? 
Falls?   what  falls?   who  knows?     As  the  tree  falls  so 

must  it  lie. 

Who  let  her  in?   how  long  has  she  been?    you — what 
have  you  heard? 

Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet?   you  never  have  spoken  a 

word. 
O — to    pray    with    me — yes — a    lady — none    of    their 

spies — 

527 


528  RIZPAH 

But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart,  and  begun  to 
darken  my  eyes. 

Ah — you,   that  have  lived    so  soft,   what  should  ^'•ou 

know  of  the  night. 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the  bitter  frost 

and  the  fright? 
I  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep — you  were  only 

made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gathered  my  baby  together — and  now  you  may 

go  your  way. 

Nay — for  it's  kind  of  you.   Madam,  to  sit  by  an  old 

dying  wife, 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have  only  an  hour 

of  life. 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he  went  out  to 

die. 
"They  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said,  and  he  never  told 

me  a  lie. 

I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once  when  he  was 

but  a  child — 
"The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said;    he  was 

always  so  wild — 
And  idle — and  couldn't  be  idle — my  Willy — he  never 

could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a  soldier,  he  would 

have  been  one  of  his  best. 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and  they  never 

would  let  him  be  good ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail,  and  he 

swore  that  he  would ; 


By  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  529 

And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse,  and  when 

all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows — "I'll  none  of  it,"  said 

my  son. 

I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the  lawyers.     I  told 

them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth— but  they  kill'd  him,  they  kill'd  him 

for  robbing  the  mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show — we  had  always 

borne  a  good  name — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief — and  then  put  away — isn't 

that  enough  shame? 

Dust  to  dust — low  down — let  us  hide !  but  they  set  him 

so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare  at  him, 

passing  by. 
God'll  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and  horrible  fowls 

of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who  kill'd  him 

and  hang'd  him  there. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had  bid  him  my  last 

good-by ; 
They  had  fasten 'd  the  door  of  his  cell.     "O  mother!" 

I  heard  him  cry. 
I   couldn't  get  back  tho'   I  tried,  he  had  something 

further  to  say, 
And  now  I  shall  never  know  it.     The  jailer  forced  me 

away. 

Then,  since  I  couldn't  but  hear  that  cr}^  of  my  boy  that 
was  dead, 


530  RIZPAH 

They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up;    they  fasten'd  me 

down  on  my  bed. 
"Mother,  O  mother!"  he  call'd  in  the  dark  to  me  year 

after  year — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me — you  know  that  I 

couldn't  but  hear; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had  grown  so  stupid 

and  still 
They  let  me  abroad    again — but    the    creatures    had 

worked  their  will. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my  bone  was 

left— 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers, — and  you,  will  you 

call  it  a  theft? 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me,  the  bones  that 

had  laughed  and  cried — 
Theirs?     O  no !    they  are  mine — not  theirs — they  had 

moved  in  my  side. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones?  I  kiss'd  'em, 
I  buried  'em  all — 

I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night  by  the  church- 
yard wall. 

My  Willy '11  rise  up  whole  when  the  trumpet  of  judg- 
ment'll  sound, 

But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid  him  in  holy 
ground. 

They  would  scratcli  him  up — they  would    hang  him 

again  on  the  cursed  tree. 
Sin?     O  yes,  we  are  sinners,  I  know — let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of   the  Lord's  good-will 

toward  men — 


By  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  531 

"Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,   the  Lord" — let  me 

hear  it  again; 
"Full    of    compassion    and    mercy  —  long-suffering." 

Yes,  O  yes! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder — the  Saviour 

lives  but  to  bless. 

He'll  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for  the  worst 

of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last—  I  have  heard  it  in  church — 

and  the  last  may  be  first. 
Suffering — O    long-suffering — yes,   as  the   Lord  must 

know. 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind  and  the  shower 

and  the  snow. 

Heard,  have  you?  what?  they  have  told  you  he  never 

repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it?  are  they  his  mother?  are  you  of 

his  kin? 
Heard!   have  you  ever  heard,  when  the  storm  on  the 

downs  began, 
The  wind  that'll  wail  like  a  child,  and  the  sea  that'll 

moan  like  a  man? 

And  if  he  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul,  that  is  all  your 

desire : 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my  boy  be  gone 

to  the  fire? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go,  go,  you  may 

leave  me  alone — 
You  have  never  borne  a  child — you  are  just  as  hard  as 

a  stone. 


532  RIZPAH 

Madam,  I  beg  j'^our  pardon !     I  think  that  you  mean  to 

be  kind, 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my  Willy's  voice  in 

the  wind — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright — he  used  but  to  call  in 

the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church  and  not  from 

the  gibbet — for  hark ! 
Nay — you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is  coming — shaking 

the  walls — 
Willy — the    moon's  in    a  cloud — Good    night.      I  am 

going.     He  calls. 


HAMLET  AT  THE  BOSTON.  (To  Edwin  Booth  ) 
From  "Later  Lyrics."  Reprinted  with  permission. 
By  JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

WE    sit  before  the  row  of  evening  lamps, 
Each  in  his  chair, 
Forgetful  of  November  dews  and  damps. 
And  wintry  air. 

A  little  gulf  of  music  intervenes, 

A  bridge  of  sighs, 
Where  still  the  cunning  of  the  curtain  screens 

Art's  paradise. 

My  thought  transcends  these  viols'  shrill  delight, 

The  booming  bass, 
And,  towards  the  regions  we  shall  view  to-night, 

Makes  hurried  pace. 

The  painted  castle,  and  the  unneeded  guard 

That  ready  stand ; 
The  harmless  Ghost,  that  walks  with  helm  unbarred 

And  beckoning  hand. 

And  beautiful  as  dreams  of  maidenhood, 

That  doubt  defy. 
Young  Hamlet,  with  his  forehead  grief-subdued, 

And  visioning  eye. 

O  fair  dead  world,  that  from  thy  grave  awak'st 

A  little  while. 
And  in  our  heart  strange  revolution  mak'st 

With  thy  brief  smile ! 

O  beauties  vanished,  fair  lips  magical, 
Heroic  braves ! 

533 


534  HAMLET  at  the  BOSTON 

O  mighty  hearts,  that  held  the  world  in  thrall! 
Come  from  your  graves ! 

The  poet  sees  you  through  a  mist  of  tears, — 

Such  depths  divide 
Him,  with  the  love  and  passion  of  his  years, 

From  you,  inside ! 

The  poet's  heart  attends  your  buskined  feet. 

Your  lofty  strains. 
Till  earth's  rude  touch  dissolves  that  madness  sweet, 

And  life  remains : 

Life  that  is  something  while  the  senses  heed 

The  spirit's  call; 
Life  that  is  nothing  when  our  grosser  need 

Ingulfs  it  all. 

And  thou,  young  hero  of  this  mimic  scene. 

In  whose  high  breast 
A  genius  greater  than  thy  life  hath  been 

Strangely  comprest! 

Wear'st  thou  those  glories  draped  about  thy  soul 

Thou  dost  present? 
And  art  thou  by  their  feeling  and  control 

Thus  eloquent? 

'Tis  with  no  feigned  power  thou  bind'st  our  sense, 

No  shallow  art; 
Sure,  lavish  Nature  gave  thee  heritance 

Of  Hamlet's  heart! 


By  JULIA  WARD  HOWE  535 

Thou  dost  control  our  fancies  with  a  might 

So  wild,  so  fond, 
We  quarrel,  passed  thy  circle  of  delight, 

With  things  beyond; 

Returning  to  the  pillows  rough  with  care, 

And  vulgar  food, 
Sad  from  the  breath  of  that  diviner  air, 

That  loftier  mood. 

And  there  we  leave  thee,  in  thy  misty  tent 

Watching  alone ; 
While  foes  about  thee  gather  imminent. 

To  us  scarce  known. 

Oh,  when  the  lights  are  quenched,  the  music  hushed, 

The  plaudits  still, 
Heaven    keep  the   fountain,   whence  the  fair  stream 
gushed. 

From  choking  ill ! 

Let  Shakespeare's  soul,   that    wins    the    world    from 
wrong. 

For  thee  avail, 
And  not  one  holy  maxim  of  his  song 

Before  thee  fail ! 

i 

So  get  thee  to  thy  couch  as  unreproved 

As  heroes  blest ; 
And  all  good  angels,  trusted  in  and  loved, 

Attend  thy  rest! 


THE  WRECKER'S  BELL.  From  "Wanderers." 
Copyright,  1892,  by  Macmillan  &  Company.  Reprinted 
with  permission.     By  WILLIAM  WINTER. 

THERE'S  a  lurid  light  in  the  clouds  to-night, 
In  the  wind  there's  a  desolate  moan, 
And  the  rage  of  the  furious  sea  is  white, 

Where  it  beats  on  the  crags  of  stone : 
Stand  here  at  my  side,  and  look  over  the  tide, 

And  say  if  you  hear  it, — the  sullen  knell, 
Faint,  from  afar,  on  the  harbour-bar, 

The  hollow  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 
For  I  cannot  hear — I  am  cold  with  fear — 

Ah,  leave  me  not  alone! 
For  I'm  old,  I'm  old,  and  my  blood  is  cold, 

And  I  fear  to  be  alone. 

With  a  shudder  I  saw  his  ashen  face, 

In  that  wild  and  fearful  night — 
For  his  blazing  eyes  illumed  the  place 

With  a  terrible,  ghastly  light ; 
And  ever  his  long  locks  floated  out, 

As  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 
And  the  great  waves  dashed  on  the  rocks  about 

With  a  mad  and  cruel  glee. 
But  I  stood  by  his  side,  and  looked  over  the  tide, 

And  faintly  I  heard  that  solemn  knell, 
Faint,  from  afar,  on  the  harbour-bar. 

The  hollow  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 

It  is  but  the  clang  of  the  signal  bell, 
That  floats  through  the  midnight  air : 

For  many  a  year  in  the  surging  swell 
Has  the  old  bell  sounded  there, 

536 


By  WILLIAM  WINTER  537 

When  the  storm  in  his  might  rides  through  the  night 

And  his  steeds  in  thunder  neigh, 
Then  its  iron  tongue  is  swayed  and  swung, 

And  plunged  in  the  angry  spray 
And  so  when  the  summer  skies  are  bright, 

And  the  breakers  are  at  play. 
But  wherefore  is  it  you  stay  me  here, 

And  why  do  you  shudder  and  moan. 
And  what  are  the  nameless  shapes  yon  fear 

In  this  desolate  place  alone? 
For  your  eyes  are  set  in  a  dreadful  glare. 

And  you  shrink  at  the  solemn  knell. 
As  it  trembles  along  the  midnight  air — 

The  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 

Look  up,  he  cried,  to  the  awful  sky. 

Look  over  the  furious  sea, 
And  mark,  as  the  grinning  fiends  float  by. 

How  they  beckon  and  howl  to  me ! 
They  are  ringing  my  knell  with  the  baleful  bell, 

And  they  gloat  on  the  doom  to  be. 
Ah !  give  me  your  hand,  and  look  not  back — 

We  stand  not  here  alone — 
And  the  horrible  shapes  that  throng  my  track 

Would  turn  your  heart  to  stone. 
The  spell  of  the  dead  is  on  the  hour. 
And  I  yield  my  soul  to  its  fearful  power. 

A  face  looks  forth  in  the  darkness  there, 
A  young  face,  sweet  with  a  rosy  light: 

The  sunshine  sleeps  in  her  golden  hair, 
And  her  violet  eyes  are  softly  bright : 

On  her  parted  lips  there's  an  innocent  smile. 


538  The  WRECKER'S  BELL 

Like  a  sunbeam  kissing  a  velvet  rose; 
And  her  cheeks  of  pearl  grow  warm  the  while, 

With  a  delicate  blush  that  comes  and  goes. 
Ah !  purer  than  morn  in  its  purest  hour, 

And  holy  as  one  from  an  angel  clime, 
Was  the  tender  woman,  the  beautiful  flower, 

I  loved  and  lost  in  the  far-off  time. 

One  fatal  night,  in  the  long  ago. 

My  gallant  cruiser  passed  that  bar. 
In  a  bank  of  clouds  the  moon  hung  low, 

And  the  sombre  sky  showed  scarce  a  star. 
The  night  was  calm,  but  I  heard  in  the  swell 

A  murmur  of  storm,  and,  far  away, 
The  muffled  toll  of  the  wrecker's  bell, 

As  it  floated  up  from  the  outer  bay. 
And  a  look  of  hate  in  the  waiting  waves 
Spoke  to  my  soul  of  a  place  of  graves. 

I  watched  them  there,  as  I  stood  at  the  wheel, - 

The  happy  lover,  the  radiant  bride, — 

And  the  wasting  fever  of  frantic  pain 

And  jealous  hatred  burnt  my  brain; 

And  I  felt  what  only  demons  feel, 

For  the  man  who  walked  by  that  woman's  side. 

Nothing  they  thought  of  danger  then, 

Or  the  schemes  and  crimes  of  wicked  men. 

Lost  in  a  wordless  dream  of  bliss. 

And  consecrate  with  marriage  kiss, 

What  could  those  innocent  creatures  know 

Of  the  burning  hate,  the  maddening  woe 

And  the  deadly  purpose  of  blind  despair, 

In  the  heart  of  the  fiend  beside  them  there? 


By  WILLIAM  WINTER  539 

An  hour  had  passed — he  stood  alone,  .   .  , 

I  thought  no  creature  saw  the  blow 
That  felled  him,  senseless  as  a  stone, 
Or  heard  the  pitiful,  low  moan, 

His  death-sigh,  as  he  sank  below 
These  very  waters  where  they  flow 

Around  that  vengeful  bell. 
But  joy,  like  grief,  will  vigils  keep, 
And  love  hath  eyes  that  never  sleep 

And  secret  tongues  that  tell. 
She  passed  like  some  swift  bolt  of  light, 
A  heavenly  angel  robed  in  white ! 
One  dazzling  gleam,  one  cry  so  shrill 
That  sea  and  sky  and  this  lone  hill 
Are  echoing  with  its  anguish  still — 
And  she  had  leaped  into  the  night : 
And  on  her  murdered  lover's  breast 
In  the  same  wave  she  sunk  to  rest. 

That  moment  o'er  the  sky 
Flamed  the  red  wrath  of  such  a  storm 
As  might  enwreath  the  Avenger's  form 

When  howling  fiends  defy. 
No  ship  could  live  in  the  gale  that  blew. 
And  mine  went  down,  with  all  her  crew — 

I  only  left  alive : 
Spumed  upward  out  of  weltering  hell 
To  that  same  reef  where  swings  the  bell 
That,  ever  since,  with  fateful  spell 
Hath  drawn  me  by  its  hideous  knell, 

I  breathed,  and  ceased  to  strive — 
I,  whom  the  lightning  will  not  rend. 
Nor  waves  engulf,  nor  death  befriend. 


540  The  WRECKER'S  BELL 

Nor  holy  father  shrive !  .   .  . 
There's  a  lurid  light  in  the  clouds  to-night, 

In  the  wind  there's  a  desolate  moan ; 
But  the  waves  roll  soft  on  the  sand  so  white, 

And  break  on  the  crags  of  stone ; 
And  the  sea-gulls  scream  in  their  frolic  flight, 

And  all  my  dream  is  flown. 
But,  far  away  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
I  still  can  hear  it,  the  muffled  boom, — 
And  it  seems  to  be  ringing  a  dead  man's  knell,- 
Solemn  and  slow,  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 


SONGS     FROM    "ROBIN     HOOD."       (First    pub- 
lished in  1786.)     By  LEONARD  MAC  NALLY. 

HER  hair  is  like  a  golden  clue, 
Drawn  from  Minerva's  loom; 
Her  lips  carnations  dropping  dew, 
Her  breath  is  a  perfume. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  mountain  snow, 

Gilt  by  the  morning  beam : 
Her  cheeks  like  living  roses  blow, 

Her  eyes  like  azure  stream. 

Adieu,  my  friend,  be  me  forgot, 

And  from  thy  mind  defac'd; 
But  may  that  happiness  be  thine, 

Which  I  can  never  taste. 


Charming  Clorinda,  ev'ry  note 
You  breathe  these  woods  among, 

Shall  move  my  grateful  tongue : 
Swelling  my  ardent  throat. 
Homage  devout  to  pay. 
Love  harmonize  the  lay. 

And  soothe  her  with  a  song. 

Should  she  bewilder' d  chance  to  stray. 
Ye  songsters,  near  your  grove. 

To  her  your  notes  belong ; 
My  soul  its  sense  shall  prove, 
My  voice  its  pow'rs  display, 
Love   harmonize  the  lay, 

And  soothe  her  with  a  song. 

54i 


542  SONGS  from  "ROBIN  HOOD" 

By  dark  grove,  shade,  or  winding  dell, 
We  merry  maids  and  archers  dwell; 
In  quiet  here,  from  worldly  stiife, 
We  pass  a  cheerful  rural  life ; 
And  by  the  moon's  pale,  quivering  beams, 
We  frisk  it  near  the  crystal  streams. 

Our  station's  on  the  king's  highway, 
We  rob  the  rich  the  poor  to  pay : 
The  woe-worn  wretch  we  still  protect, 
The  widow,  orphan,  ne'er  neglect: 
Fat  churchmen  proud  we  cause  to  stand. 
And  whistle  for  our  steady  band. 


Hark!  the  warbling  choir  sings, 
Hark!  the  azure  welkin  rings, 

Hills  with  joy  resound; 
Cowslips  glad  the  laughing  fields, 
Fragrant  thyme  its  odor  yields, 

Violets  breathe  around. 

Elms  their  verdant  honors  spread, 
Dewdrops  gild  the  mossy  bed, 

Daisies  bloom  among ; 
Soft  and  joyous  through  the  skies. 
Thousand  sprightly  voices  rise, 

Echo  joins  the  song. 

Blissful  scenes  soon  pass  away. 
Pride's  the  glimmer  of  a  day. 

Flies  on  rapid  wing; 
Learn  to  know,  vain  mortal  man. 
Fleeting  life  is  but  a  span. 

Emblem  of  the  spring. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN.     By  JOHN  KEATS. 

THOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness! 
Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?     What  maidens  loath? 
What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?     What  wild  ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve, 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

543 


544  ODE  on  a  GRECIAN  URN 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !     Fair  attitude !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form!  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity:     Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  wo 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


NOTHING  BUT  LEAVES.     A  Study  in  Yellow  and 
Brown.     By  M.  H.  G. 

HE'S  devotion  itself  all  the  summer; 
That  she's  caught  him  she  fondly  believes; 
But  when  comes  the  last  day  of  the  season, 
He  simply  says  nothing — but  leaves. 

They've  danced  through  each  hop  and  cotillion, 

No  other  his  homage  receives. 
But,  chilled  by  the  first  frosts  of  autumn, 

He  coldly  says  nothing — but  leaves. 

When  she  adds  up  her  gains  and  her  losses, 
Like  a  husbandman  counting  his  sheaves, 

She  mentally  puts  a  black  mark  to  his  name, 

And  says:  "This  year  I've  nothing — but  leaves!" 


545 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.  (Shortly  after 
the  revival  of  learning  in  Europe.)  By  ROBERT 
BROWNING. 

LET  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 
Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes, 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow: 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row ! 
That's  the  appropriate  country;  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser. 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels; 

Clouds  overcome  it; 
No!  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies;  wind  we  up  the  heights: 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm  and  dead. 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd!  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft, 
Safe  from  the  weather! 

546 


By  ROBERT  BROWNING  547 

He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together. 
He  was  a  man  bom  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo! 
Long  he  lived  nameless:  how  should  Spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone! 

Cramped  and  diminished. 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon! 

My  dance  is  finished"? 
No,  that's  the  world's  way:  (keep  the  mountain-side. 

Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping: 
"What's in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thoukeepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping. 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

Give!" — So,  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page : 

Learned,  we  found  him. 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald,  too,  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain : 
"Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain!" 
This  man  said  rather,  "Actual  life  comes  next? 

Patience  a  moment! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

Still  there's  the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy ! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 


548  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 

Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it. 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts — 

Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick ! 

(Here's  the  town-gate  reached:  there's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us. ) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus!) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to  live — 

No  end  to  learning : 
Earn  the  means  first — God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  "But  time  escapes: 

Live  now  or  never!" 
He  said,  "What's  time?     Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes! 

Man  has  Forever. ' ' 
Back  to  his  book  then:  deeper  drooped  his  head: 

Calculus  racked  him: 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead: 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
•'Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest!" — not  he! 

(Caution  redoubled, 
Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly !) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 


By  ROBERT  BROWNING  549 

Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain. 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain  ! 
Was  it  not  great?  did  not  he  throw  on  God, 

(He  loves  the  burthen) — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing — heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure: 
"Wilt  thou   trust   death   or   not?"       He  answered 
"Yes! 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure!" 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit: 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need  the  next. 

Let  the  world  mind  him! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife. 

Ground  he  at  grammar ; 
Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 


550  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 

He  settled  Hoti's  business — let  it  be! — 

Properly  based  Oun — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper  place: 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  featherefl  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews! 
Here's  the  top-peak;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 

Bury  this  man  there? 
Here — here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds 
form. 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go!     Let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects: 

Loftily  lying. 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 


THE  EAGLE'S  SONG.     Reprinted  with  permission. 
By  RICHARD  MANSFIELD. 

THE  Lioness  whelped,  and  the  sturdy  cub 
Was  seized  by  an  eagle  and  carried  up 
And  homed  for  a  while  in  an  eagle's  nest, 
And  slept  for  a  while  on  an  eagle's  breast, 
And  the  eagle  taught  it  the  eagle's  song: 
"To  be  staunch  and  valiant  and  free  and  strong!" 

The  Lion  whelp  sprang  from  the  eerie  nest, 
From  the  lofty  crag  where  the  queen  birds  rest; 
He  fought  the  King  on  the  spreading  plain, 
And  drove  him  back  o'er  the  foaming  main. 

He  held  the  land  as  a  thrifty  chief, 
And  reared  his  cattle  and  reaped  his  sheaf, 
Nor  sought  the  help  of  a  foreign  hand, 
Yet  welcomed  all  to  his  own  free  land ! 

Two  were  the  sons  that  the  country  bore 
To  the  Northern  lakes  and  the  Southern  shore. 
And  Chivalry  dwelt  with  the  Southern  son, 
And  Industry  lived  with  the  Northern  one. 
Tears  for  the  time  when  they  broke  and  fought! 
Tears  was  the  price  of  the  union  wrought! 
And  the  land  was  red  in  a  sea  of  blood, 
Where  brother  for  brother  had  swelled  the  flood ! 

And  now  that  the  two  are  one  again, 
Behold  on  their  shield  the  word  "Refrain!" 
And  the  lion  cubs  twain  sing  the  eagle's  song, 
"To  be  staunch  and  valiant  and  free  and  strong!" 
For  the  eagle's  beak  and  the  lion's  paw. 
And  the  lion's  fangs  and  the  eagle's  claw, 

551 


552  The  EAGLE'S  SONG 

And  the  eagle's  swoop  and  the  lion's  might, 

And  the  lion's  leap  and  the  eagle's  sight, 

Shall  guard  the  flag  with  the  word  "Refrain!" 

Now  that  the  two  are  one  again ! 

Here's  to  a  cheer  for  the  Yankee  ships! 

And  "Well  done,  Sam,"  from  the  mother's  lips! 


THE    COMPLAINT   OF   A  FORSAKEN    INDIAN 
WOMAN.     By  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

BEFORE  I  see  another  day, 
O  let  my  body  die  away ! 
In  sleep  I  heard  the  northern  gleams; 
The  stars,  they  were  among  my  dreams; 
In  rustling  conflict  through  the  skies, 
I  heard,  I  saw  the  flashes  drive, 
And  yet  they  are  upon  my  eyes, 
And  yet  I  am  alive ; 
Before  I  see  another  day, 
O  let  my  body  die  away ! 

My  fire  is  dead :  it  knew  no  pain ; 

Yet  it  is  dead,  and  I  remain : 

All  stiff  with  ice  the  ashes  lie ; 

And  they  are  dead,  and  I  will  die. 

When  I  was  well,  I  wished  to  live. 

For  clothes,  for  warmth,  for  food,  and  fire ; 

But  they  to  me  no  joy  can  give, 

No  pleasure  now,  and  no  desire. 

Then  here  contented  will  I  lie ! 

Alone,  I  cannot  fear  to  die. 

Alas !  ye  might  have  dragged  me  on 

Another  day,  a  single  one ! 

Too  soon  I  yielded  to  despair; 

Why  did  ye  listen  to  my  prayer? 

When  ye  were  gone  my  limbs  were  stronger; 

But  oh !  how  grievously  I  rue. 

That,  afterwards,  a  little  longer. 

My  friends,  I  did  not  follow  you ! 

For  strong  and  without  pain  I  lay. 

Dear  friends,  when  ye  were  gone  away. 

553 


554    The  COMPLAINT  of  a  FORSAKEN  WOMAN 

My  Child !  they  gave  thee  to  another, 
A  woman  who  was  not  thy  mother. 
When  from  my  arms  my  babe  they  took 
On  me  how  strangely  did  he  look! 
Through  his  whole  body  something  ran, 
A  most  strange  working  did  I  see, — 
As  if  he  strove  to  be  a  man, 
That  he  might  pull  the  sledge  for  me: 
And  then  he  stretched  his  arms,  how  wild ! 

0  mercy!  like  a  helpless  child. 

My  little  joy!  my  little  pride! 

In  two  days  more  I  must  have  died. 

Then  do  not  weep  and  grieve  for  me  • 

1  feel  I  must  have  died  with  thee. 

0  wind,  that  o'er  my  head  art  flying 

The  way  my  friends  their  course  did  bend, 

1  should  not  feel  the  pain  of  dying, 
Could  I  with  thee  a  message  send ; 
Too  soon,  my  friends,  ye  went  away; 
For  I  had  many  things  to  say. 

I'll  follow  you  across  the  snow; 

Ye  travel  heavily  and  slow; 

In  spite  of  all  my  weary  pain, 

I'll  look  upon  your  tents  again. 

— My  fire  is  dead,  and  snowy  white 

The  water  which  beside  it  stood: 

The  wolf  has  come  to  me  to-night. 

And  he  has  stolen  away  my  food. 

Forever  left  alone  am  I ; 

Then  wherefore  should  I  fear  to  die? 


By  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  555 

Youngf  as  I  am,  my  course  is  run 

I  shall  not  see  another  sun ; 

I  cannot  lift  my  limbs  to  know 

If  they  have  any  life  or  no. 

My  poor  forsaken  Child !  if  I 

For  once  could  have  thee  close  to  me, 

With  happy  heart  I  then  would  die, 

And  my  last  thought  would  happy  be ; 

But  thou,  dear  Babe,  art  far  away, 

Nor  shall  I  see  another  day. 


I 


IKE  WALTON'vS  PRAYER  From  "Afterwhiles." 
Copyright,  18S7,  by  James  Whilcomb  Riley.  Re- 
printed with  permission.  By  JAMES  WHITCOMB 
RILEY. 

CRAVE,  dear  Lord, 
No  boundless  hoard 
Of  gold  and  gear, 
Nor  jewels  fine 
Nor  lands,  nor  kine, 
Nor  treasure-heaps  of  anything. — 
Let  but  a  little  hut  be  mine 
Where  at  the  hearthstone  I  may  hear 
The  cricket  sing, 
And  have  the  shine 
Of  one  glad  woman's  eyes  to  make, 
For  my  poor  sake, 
Our  simple  home  a  place  divine; — 
Just  the  wee  cot — the  cricket's  chirr — 
Love,  and  the  smiling  face  of  her. 

I  pray  not  for 

Great  riches,  nor 

For  vast  estates,  and  castle-halls, — 
Give  me  to  hear  the  bare  footfalls 
Of  children  o'er 
An  oaken  floor. 
New-rinsed  with  sunshine,  or  bespread 
With  but  the  tiny  coverlet 
And  pillow  for  the  baby's  head; 

And,  pray  Thou,  may 

The  door  stand  open  and  the  day 
Send  ever  in  a  gentle  breeze. 
With  fragrance  from  the  locust-trees, 
.    And  drowsy  moan  of  doves,  and  blur 

556 


By  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Of  robin-chirps,  and  drone  of  bees, 

With  afterhushes  of  the  stir 
Of  intermingling  sounds,  and  then 

The  good-wife  and  the  smile  of  her 
Filling  the  silences  again — 
The  cricket's  call, 

And  the  wee  cot, 
Dear  Lord  of  all. 
Deny  me  not! 

I  pray  not  that 
Men  tremble  at 
My  power  of  place 
And  lordly  sway, — 
I  only  pray  for  simple  grace 
To  look  my  neighbor  in  the  face 

Full  honestly  from  day  to  day — 
Yield  me  his  horny  palm  to  hold, 
And  I'll  not  pray 
For  gold ; — 
The  tanned  face,  garlanded  with  mirth, 
It  hath  the  kingliest  smile  on  earth — 
The  swart  brow,  diamonded  with  sweat, 
Hath  never  need  of  coronet. 
And  so  I  reach, 

Dear  Lord,  to  Thee, 
And  do  beseech 
Thou  givest  me 
The  wee  cot,  and  the  cricket's  chirr. 
Love,  and  the  glad  sweet  face  of  her! 


c  r  ■ 
J  J  i 


CAVALRY  SONG.  From  "Alice  of  Monmouth." 
Copyright,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  Reprinted 
with  permission.  By  EDMUND  CLARENCE 
STEDMAN. 

OUR  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 
Our  pulses  with  their   purpose  tingle; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle ! 

HALT! 
Each  carbine  send  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling,  clang!  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome : 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer! 
One  look  to  Heaven!     No  thoughts  of  home: 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

CHARGE! 
Cling !  clang !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall : 
Cut  left  and  right! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack ! 

They  fall !  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

WHEEL! 
The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall: 
Cling!  clang!  backward  all! 
Home,  and  good  night! 


558 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  MOON.  From 
"Songs  of  Doubt  and  Dream."  Copyright,  1891,  by 
Funk  &  Wagnalls.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By 
EDGAR  FAWCETT. 

SHE    turns    her  great    grave  eyes     toward    mine, 
Avhile  I  stroke  her  soft  hair's  gold ; 
We  watch  the  moon  through  the  window  shine ;  she  is 

only  eight  years  old. 
"Is  it  true,"  she  asks,  with  guileless  mien,  and  with 

voice  in  tender  tune, 
"That  nobody  ever  yet  has  seen  the  other  side  of  the 
moon?" 

I  smile  at  her  question,  answering  "yes";   and  then, 

by  a  sirange  thought  stirred, 
I  murmur,   half   in  forgetfulness  that  she  listens  to 

every  word : 
"There  are  treasures  on  earth  so  rich  and  fair  that 

they  cannot  stay  with  us  here, 
And  the  other  side  of  the  moon  is  where  they  go  when 

they  disappear ! 

"There  are  hopes  that  the  spirit  hardly  names,  and 

songs  that  it  mutely  sings. 
There  are  good  resolves  and  exalted  aims,  there  are 

longings  for  nobler  things ; 
There  are  sounds  and  visions  that  haunt  our  lot,  ere 

they  vanish,  or  seem  to  die, 
And  the  other  side  of  the  moon  (why  not?)  is  the  far 

bourne  where  they  fly ! 

"We  can  fancy  that  realm  were  passing  sweet  and  of 
strangely  precious  worth, 

559 


56o  The  OTHER  SIDE  of  the  MOON 

If  its  distant  reaches  enshrined  complete  the  incom- 
pleteness of  earth ! 

Nay,  if  there  we  found,  like  a  living  dream,  what  here 
we  but  mourn  and  miss. 

Oh,  the  other  side  of  the  moon  would  beam  with  a 
glory  unknown  in  this!" 

"Are  you  talking  of  heaven?"  she  whispers  now,  while 

she  nestles  against  my  knees. 
And  I  say,  as  I  kiss  her  white  wide  brow,  "You  may 

call  it  so,  if  you  please ; 
For  if  any  such  wondrous  land  may  be,  and  we  journey 

there,  late  or  soon. 
Then  from  heaven,  I  am  sure,  we  shall  gaze  and  see 

.  .  .  the  other  side  of  the  moon!" 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA.  Copyright, 
by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company.  Reprinted  with 
permission.     By  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

SPEAK  and  tell    us,  our    Ximena,   looking    north- 
ward far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array. 
Who  is  losing?    who  is  winning?  are  they  far  or  come 

they  near? 
Look   abroad,   and    tell  us,   sister,   whither    rolls   the 
storm  we  hear. 

"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle 
rolls ; 

Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying ;  God  have  mercy  on 
their  souls!" 

Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning? — "Over  hill  and  over 
plain, 

I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  moun- 
tain rain. ' ' 

Holy  Mother!  keep  our  brothers!     Look,  Ximena,  look 

once  more: 
"Still  I  see  the    fearful    whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as 

before. 
Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman, 

foot  and  horse. 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down 

its  mountain  course. ' ' 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "Ah!  the  smoke  has 

rolled  away; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks 

of  gray. 

561 


S62  The  ANGELS  of  BUENA  VISTA 

Hark!  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles!    there  the  troop  of 

Minon  wheels; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon 

at  their  heels. 

"Jesu,  pity!    how  it  thickens!    now  retreat  and  now 

advance ! 
Right    against   the   blazing   cannon   shivers   Puebla's 

charging  lance ! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse  and  foot 

together  fall; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs 

the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and 

frightful  on : 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and 

who  has  won? 
"Alas!  alas!  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living:    pray,  my  sisters,  for 

them  all!" 

"Lo!   the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting:  Blessed  Mother, 

save  my  brain! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps 

of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding;  now  they  fall, 

and  strive  to  rise ; 
Hasten,   sisters,   haste  and  save  them,   lest   they  die 

before  our  eyes!" 

"Oh,  my  heart's  love!  oh,  my  dear  one!   lay  thy  poor 
head  on  my  knee ; 


By  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER       563 

Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?     Canst  thou 

hear  me!  canst  thou  see? 
Oh,  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle!     Oh,  my  Bernal, 

look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee!  mercy!  mercy!  all  is 

o'er!" 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down 

to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his 

breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses 

said; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a 

soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow 

his  life  away ; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt. 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol  belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away 
her  head ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her 
dead; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  strug- 
gling breath  of  pain. 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parched  lips 
again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and 
faintly  smiled : 


564  The  ANGELS  of  BUENA  VISTA 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?    did  she  watch 

beside  her  child? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning-  her  woman's  heart 

supplied ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "Mother!"  murmured 

he,  and  died! 

"A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee 

forth. 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely, 

in  the  North!" 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,   as  she  laid  him 

with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds 

which  bled.  * 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "Like  a  cloud  before 

the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and 

death  behind; 
Ah!    they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy;    in  the  dust  the 

wounded  strive; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels !    oh,  thou  Christ  of  God, 

forgive ! ' ' 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains!    let  the  cool, 

gray  shadows  fall ; 
Dying    brothers,   fighting  demons,   drop    thy  curtain 

over  all ! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the 

battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips 

grew  cold. 


.  By  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER       565 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pur- 
sued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and 
faint  and  lacking  food ; 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care 
they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and 
Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of  ours; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the 

Eden  flowers ; 
From  its  smoicing  hell  of  battle.  Love  and  Pity  send 

their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our 

air! 


CAVALIER  TUNES.  By  ROBERT  BROWNING. 
I.  MARCHING  ALONG. 

KENTISH  SIR  BYNG  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing: 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong. 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries! 

Cavaliers,  up !     Lips  from  the  cup. 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 

Till  you're— 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted     gentlemen,    singing     this 
song. 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell. 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well! 
England,  good  cheer!     Rupert  is  near! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here. 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted     gentlemen,     singing     this 
song? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles!     Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight, 
Chorus. — March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted     gentlemen,     singing     this 
song! 

566 


By  ROBERT  BROWNING  567 

II.     GIVE   A  ROUSE. 


I. 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles ! 

II. 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 
Chorus. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,    and  who's    ripe    for    fight 

now? 
Give  arouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now. 
King  Charles! 

III. 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 

Chorus. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 

King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 

Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 

King  Charles! 

III.     BOOT   AND   SADDLE. 


Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 


568  CAVALIER  TUNES 

Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray, 

Chorus. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 

II. 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say; 
Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay — 
Chorus. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

III. 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts  Castle  Bran^epeth  the  Roundheads*  array: 
Who  laughs,  "Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 
Chorus. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

IV. 

Who?     My  wife  Gertrude;  that,  honest  and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "Nay! 
I've  better  counsellors;  what  counsel  they? 
Chorus. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 


THE  OLD  ADMIRAL.  Admiral  Stewart,  U.  S.  N. 
Copyright,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  Reprinted 
with  permission.  By  EDMUND  CLARENCE 
STEDMAN. 

GONE  at  last, 
That  brave  old  hero  of  the  past! 
His  spirit  has  a  second  birth, 

An  unknown,  grander  life ; 
All  of  him  that  was  earth 

Lies  mute  and  cold. 

Like  a  wrinkled  sheath  and  old 
Thrown  off  forever  from  the  shimmering  blade 
That  has  good  entrance  made 

Upon  some  distant,  glorious  strife. 

From  another  generation, 

A  simpler  age,  to  ours  Old  Ironsides  came; 
The  morn  and  noontide  of  the  nation 

Alike  he  knew,  nor  yet  outlived  his  fame, — 
O,  not  outlived  his  fame ! 
The  dauntless  men  whose  service  guards  our  shore 

Lengthen  still  their  glory-roll 

With  his  name  to  lead  the  scroll, 
As  a  flagship  at  her  fore 

Carries  the  Union,  with  its  azure  and  the  stars, 
Symbol  of  times  that  are  no  more 

And  the  old  heroic  wars. 

He  was  the  one 

Whom  Death  had  spared  alone 

Of  all  the  captains  of  that  lusty  age. 
Who  sought  the  foeman  where  he  lay 
On  sea  or  sheltering  bay. 

Nor  till  the  prize  was  theirs  repressed  their  rage. 

569 


570  The  OLD  ADMIRAL 

They  are  gone, — all  gone: 

They  rest  with  glory  and  the  undying  Powers; 
Only  their  name  and  fame,  and  what  they  saved,  are 
ours! 

It  was  fifty  years  ago, 

Upon  the  Gallic  Sea, 

He  bore  the  banner  of  the  free, 
And  fought  the  fight  whereof  our  children  know, — 

The  deathful,  desperate  fight! 

Under  the  fair  moon's  light 
The  frigate  squared,  and  yawed  to  left  and  right. 

Every  broadside  swept  to  death  a  score ! 
Roundly  played    her  guns    and  well,   till  their   fiery 
ensigns  fell, 

Neither  foe  replying  more. 
All  in  silence,  when  the  night-breeze  cleared  the  air, 

Old  Ironsides  rested  there. 
Locked  in  between  the  twain,  and  drenched  with  blood. 

Then  homeward,  like  an  eagle  with  her  prey! 

O,  it  was  a  gallant  fray, — 

That  fight  in  Biscay  Bay ! 
Fearless  the  captain  stood,  in  his  youthful  hardihood : 

He  was  the  boldest  of  them  all. 

Our  brave  old  Admiral ! 

And  still  our  heroes  bleed, 
Taught  by  that  olden  deed. 

Whether  of  iron  or  of  oak 
The  ships  we  marshal  at  our  country's  need. 

Still  speak  their  cannon  now  as  then  they  spoke ; 
Still  floats  our  unstruck  banner  from  the  mast 

As  in  the  stormy  past. 


By  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN      571 

Lay  him  in  the  ground : 

Let  him  rest  where  the  ancient  river  rolls; 
Let  him  sleep  beneath  the  shadow  and  the  sound 

Of  the  bell  whose  proclamation,  as  it  tolls, 
Is  of  Freedom  and  the  gift  our  fathers  gave. 

Lay  him  gently  down : 

The  clamor  of  the  town 
Will  not  break  the  slumbers  deep,  the  beautiful  ripe 

sleep, 
Of  this  lion  of  the  wave. 

Will  not  trouble  the  old  Admiral  in  his  grave. 

Earth  to  earth  his  dust  is  laid. 
Methinks  his  stately  shade 

On  the  shadow  of  a  great  ship  leaves  the  shore; 
Over  cloudless  western  seas 
Seeks  the  far  Hesperides, 

The  islands  of  the  blest. 
Where  no  turbulent  billows  roar, — 

Where  is  rest. 
His  ghost  upon  the  shadowy  quarter  stands 
Nearing  the  deathless  lands. 

There  all  his  martial  mates,  renewed  and  strong, 
Await  his  coming  long. 

I  see  the  happy  Heroes  rise 

With  gratulation  in  their  eyes : 

"Welcome,  old  comrade,"  Lawrence  cries; 
"Ah,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars! 
Who  win  the  glory  and  the  scars? 

How  floats  the  skyey  flag, — how  many  stars? 

Still  speak  they  of  Decatur's  name, 

Of  Bainbridge's  and  Perry's  fame? 


572  The  OLD  ADMIRAL 

Of  me,  who  earliest  came? 
Make  ready,  all : 
Room  for  the  Admiral ! 

Come,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars!" 


AUTUMN  TOURISTS.     Anonymous. 

THEY  were  rowing  over  a  summer  lake, 
A  lake  deep  blue  and  without  a  curl, 
Save  just  the  ripple  the  oars  would  make, 
And  the  shoreward  streak  of  pearl. 

High  over  the  waters  the  mountains  rise, 
Deep  under  the  water  the  mountains  fall, 

You  may  fathom  the  depths  and  mete  the  skies. 
But  the  heart  is  deeper  than  all. 

Some  one  said,  "We  shall  miss  you  so, 

Robin,  when  you  are  away  so  far. 
And  he  said  with  a  smile,  "It  is  hard  to  go. 

But  things  must  be  as  they  are." 

"He  can  smile,  so  will  I,"  she  thought, 
"With  her  rosy  fingers  over  the  brink, 

"But  oh!  some  lessons  are  hard  to  be  taught, 
Some  cups  are  bitter  to  drink. 

The  time  that  is  past,  like  yonder  shore, 
Grows  fainter  and  fainter  under  our  sight; 

God,"  she  prayed,  "if  I  see  him  no  more 
Help  me  to  bear  it  aright." 

She  groaned  to  herself,  "I  must  look  in  his  eyes, 
And  thrill  and  bear  the  touch  of  his  hand, 

Then  go  on  alone  'neath  the  pitiless  skies. 
When  the  boat  has  touched  the  strand." 

"Be  a  man  and  care  as  little  as  she!" 

Thought  he  as  they  neared  the  farther  shore, 

"Love  is  not  made  for  fellows  like  me. 
So  farewell  for  evermore." 

573 


574  AUTUMN  TOURISTS 

"A  pleasant  time  it  has  been,"  he  said, 
"I  wish  we  could  have  it  over  again — " 

*'Ay,"  ail  bitterly  answered  her  heart, 
"For  pleasure  is  kin  to  pain." 

"We  see  people  better  in  foreign  lands. 
Perhaps  the  fogs  are  too  thick  in  our  own," 

She  said,  frankly  giving  him  both  her  hands. 
Not  a  touch  of  pain  in  her  tone. 

Then  as  the  shore  grated  under  the  keel, 

She  said,  as  she  lightly  stepped  from  the  boat, 

"How  real  and  solid  the  pebbles  feel 
After  all  our  visions  afloat!" 

The  white  towns  glistened  and  glowed  in  the  light, 

And  the  children  gathered  to  gaze. 
And  the  sun  poured  down  with  a  pitiless  might, 

As  they  went  their  several  ways. 

Straining  of  eyes,  and  waving  of  hands. 

And  the  trifles  that  make — or  mar, 
These  must  happen  in  all  the  lands, 

And  things  must  be  as  they  are. 


MR,     MOLONY'S    ACCOUNT    OF     THE    BALL. 
By  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

OWILL  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news? 
•       Bedad,  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er: 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  ball 

To  the  Naypaulase  ambassador. 
Begor!  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate, 

At  which  I  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 
Of  th'  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 
"We'll  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "Almack's, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's. ' ' 
With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 
And  decked  the  walls  and  stairs  and  halls 

With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  Jullien's  band  it  tuck  its  stand 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there 
And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chunes, 

And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 
And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buffet  before  them  set 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was! 

At  ten  before  the  ball-room  door, 

His  moighty  Excellency  was; 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd, 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 

575 


576     MR.  MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  of  the  BALL 

His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 

Into  the  door-way  followed  him  ; 
And  O  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 

As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him ! 

The  noble  Chair  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump ;  and  he 
Did  thus  evince  to  that  Black  Prince 

The  welcome  of  his  Company. 
O  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys,  you  saw  there,  was; 
And  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 

On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther  was! 

This  Gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals, 
(Bedad,  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat. 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals;) 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Recloinin  on  his  cushion  was, 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair, 

The  squeezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

O  Pat,  such  girls,  such  Jukes  and  Earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee ! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentility! 
There  was  Lord  De  L'Huys,  and  the  Portygeese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there. 
And  I  reckonized,  with  much  surprise. 

Our  messmate.  Bob  O'Grady,  there; 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  looked  like  Juno, 
And  Baroness  Rehausen  there. 


By  WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     577 

And  Countess  RouUier,  that  looked  peculiar 
Well,  in  her  robes  of  gauze  in  there. 

There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first 
When  only  Mr,  Pips  he  was), 

And  Mick  O' Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 
That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall  and  his  ladies  all, 

And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufferin, 
And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife, — 

I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 

And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  I  go  there? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 

And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  Jukes  and  Earls,  and  diamonds  and  pearls, 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there ; 
And  some  beside  (the  rogues!)  I  spied. 

Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 
O,  there's  one  I  know,  bedad,  would  show 

As  beautiful  as  any  there ; 
And  I'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there! 


THE   FUGITIVES.     By  PERCY  BYSSHE   SHEL- 
LEY. 


THE  waters  are  flashing, 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  hghtnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar  spray  is  dancing: — 
Away ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 
The  thunder  is  tolling. 
The  forest  is  swinging, 
The  minster-bells  ringing: — 
Come  away! 

The  earth  is  like  ocean, 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion ; 
Bird,  beast,  man,  and  worm. 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm : — 
Come  away! 

II. 

'*Our  boat  has  one  sail, 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale. 
A  bold  pilot,  I  trow, 
Who  should  follow  us  now!" 
Shouted  he. 

And  she  cried:  "Ply  the  oar; 
Put  off  gaily  from  shore!" — 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death. 
Mixed  with  hail,  specked  their  path 
O'er  the  sea: 

578 


By  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  579 

And  from  isle,  tower,  and  rock, 
The  blue  beacon-cloud  broke : 
And,  though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flashed  fast 
From  the  lee. 


III. 

And  "Fear' St  thou?"  and  "Fear'st  thou?' 
And  "Seest  thou?"  and  "Hear'st  thou?" 
And  "Drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 
I  and  thou?" 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover: 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low ; — 

While  around  the  lashed  ocean. 
Like  mountains  in  motion, 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted. 
Sunk,  shattered,  and  shifted 
To  and  fro. 


IV. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress 
Beside  the  pale  portress. 
Like  a  bloodhound  well  beaten 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame. 


58o  The  FUGITIVES 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  grey  tyrant  father; 
To  his  voice,  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame ; 

And,  with  curses  as  wild 
As  e'er  clung  to  child, 
He  devotes  to  the  blast 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last, 
Of  his  name. 


ELEGY    IN  A    COUNTRY    CHURCH-YARD.     By 
THOMAS  GRAY. 

THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight. 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  bum, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

581 


582    ELEGY  {71  a  COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARD 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  Poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour: — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre ; 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress' d  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 


By  THOMAS  GRAY.  583 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command. 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined. 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial,  still  erected  nigh. 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


584  ELEGY  in  a   COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARD 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

To  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forge  tfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn ; 

"There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 


By  THOMAS  GRAY  585 

"One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  'customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree : 

Another  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he ; 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow   through   the    church-way   path    we   saw  him 
borne, — 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  tmknown: 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear 

He  gain'd  from  heaven  ('t  was  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


LOCHINVAR      By  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

O  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West, — 
•    Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the 
best; 
And,  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone. 

He  swam  the  Eske  River  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late ; 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and   kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and 

all. 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word), 
"O,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?' 

**I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide, 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine ; 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far. 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 

586 


By  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  587 

With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
Now  tread  we  a  measure,"  said  young  Lochinvar, 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And  the   bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume; 
And  the  bridemaidens  whispered,  *'  'Twere  better  by 

far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochin- 
var." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood 

near; 
So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung; 
"She   is  won!    we  are  gone!    over   bank,   bush,   and 

scaur ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby 

clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 


SHIPS  AT  SEA.     By  ROBERT  BARRY  COFFIN. 

I   HAVE  ships  that  went  to  sea 
More  than  fifty  years  ago 
None  have  yet  come  home  to  me, 

But  keep  sailing  to  and  fro. 
I  have  seen  them,  in  my  sleep, 
Plunging  thro'  the  shoreless  deep, 
With  tattered  sails  and  battered  hulls, 
While  around  them  screamed  the  gulls, 
Flying  low,  flying  low. 

I  have  wondered  why  they  staid 
From  me,  sailing  round  the  world; 

And  I've  said,  "I'm  half  afraid 

That  their  sails  will  ne'er  be  furled." 

Great  the  treasures  that  they  hold,  — 

Silks  and  plumes,  and  bars  of  gold ; 

While  the  spices  which  they  bear 

Fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air, 
As  they  sail,  as  they  sail. 

Every  sailor  in  the  port 

Knows  that  I  have  ships  at  sea, 
Of  the  waves  and  winds  the  sport; 

And  the  sailors  pity  me. 
Oft  they  come  and  with  me  walk. 
Cheering  me  with  hopeful  talk. 
Till  I  put  my  fears  aside, 
And  contented  watch  the  tide 
Rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall. 

I  have  waited  on  the  piers. 

Gazing  for  them  down  the  bay, 
Days  and  nights,  for  many  years, 

588 


By  ROBERT  BARRY  COFFIN  589 

Till  I  turned  heart-sick  away. 
But  the  pilots,  when  they  land, 
Stop  and  take  me  by  the  hand. 
Saying,  "You  will  live  to  see 
Your  proud  vessels  come  from  sea, 
One  and  all,  one  and  all." 

So  I  never  quite  despair. 

Nor  let  hope  or  courage  fail ; 
And  some  day,  when  skies  are  fair, 

Up  the  bay  my  ships  will  sail. 
I  can  buy  then  all  I  need, — 
Prints  to  look  at,  books  to  read. 
Horses,  wines,  and  works  of  art. 
Everything,  except  a  heart ; 
That  is  lost,  that  is  lost. 

Once,  when  I  was  pure  and  young, 

Poorer,  too,  than  I  am  now. 
Ere  a  cloud  was  o'er  me  flung. 

Or  a  wrinkle  creased  my  brow, 
There  was  one  whose  heart  was  mine; 
But  she's  something  now  divine, 
And  though  come  my  ships  from  sea, 
They  can  bring  no  heart  to  me, 
Evermore,  evermore. 


THE  COLISEUM  BY  MOONLIGHT  From 
"Manfred."  By  GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD 
BYRON. 

THE  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness 
I  learned  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering, — upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome. 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber;  and 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot, — where  the  Caesars  dwelt. 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levelled  battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths. 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth; — 
But  the  gladiator's  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection, 
While  Caesar's  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. — 

590 


By   GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  591 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  filled  up, 

As  't  were  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries, 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old! — 

The  dead,  but  sceptered  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. 


THE    DIRTY    OLD    MAN.     By  WILLIAM    ALL- 
INGHAM. 

(A  singular  man,  named  Nathaniel  Bentley,  for  many  years 
kept  a  large  hardware  shop  in  Leadenhall  Street,  London.  He  was 
best  known  as  Dirty  Dick  (Dick  for  alliteration's  sake,  probably), 
and  his  place  of  business  as  the  Dirty  Warehouse.  He  died  about 
the  year  1809.  These  verses  accord  with  the  accounts  respecting 
himself  and  his  house.) 

IN  a  dirty  old  house  lived  a  Dirty  Old  Man ; 
Soap,  towels,  or  brushes  were  not  in  his  plan. 
For  forty  long  years,  as  the  neighbors  declared, 
His  house  never  once  had  been  cleaned  or  repaired. 

'T  was  a  scandal  and  shame  to  the  business-like  street, 
One  terrible  blot  in  a  ledger  so  neat: 
The  shop  full  of  hardware,  but  black  as  a  hearse. 
And  the  rest  of  the  mansion  a  thousand  times  worse. 

Outside,  the  old  plaster,  all  spatter  and  stain, 
Looked  spotty  in  sunshine  and  streaky  in  rain ; 
The  window-sills  sprouted  with  mildewy  grass. 
And  the  panes  from  being  broken  were  known  to  be 
glass. 

On  the  rickety  signboard  no  learning  could  spell 
The  merchant  who  sold,  or  the  goods  he'd  to  sell; 
But  for  house  and  for  man  a  new  title  took  growth, 
Like  a  fungus, — the  Dirt  gave  its  name  to  them  both. 

Within,  there  were  carpets  and  cushions  of  dust. 
The  wood  was  half  rot,  and  the  metal  half  rust. 
Old  curtains,  half  cobwebs,  himg  grimly  aloof ; 
'T  was  a  Spiders'  Elysium  from  cellar  to  roof. 

592 


By  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  593 

There,  king  of  the  spiders,  the  Dirty  Old  Man 

Lives  busy  and  dirty  as  ever  he  can ; 

With  dirt  on  his  fingers  and  dirt  on  his  face, 

For  the  Dirty  Old  Man  thinks  the  dirt  no  disgrace. 

From  his  wig  to  his  shoes,  from  his  coat  to  his  shirt, 

His  clothes  are  a  proverb,  a  marvel  of  dirt ; 

The  dirt  is  pervading,  unfading,  exceeding, — 

Yet  the  Dirty  Old  Man  has  both  learning  and  breeding. 

Fine  dames  from  their  carriages,  noble  and  fair, 
Have  entered  his  shop,  less  to  buy  than  to  stare , 
And  have    afterwards  said,   though    the  dirt    was  so 

frightful. 
The  Dirty  Man's  manners  were  truly  delightful. 

Upstairs  might  they  venture,  in  dirt  and  in  gloom, 
To  peep  at  the  door  of  the  wonderful  room 
Such  stories  are  told  about,  none  of  them  true ! — 
The  keyhole  itself  has  no  mortal  seen  through. 

That  room, — forty  years  since,  folk  settled  and  decked 

it. 
The  luncheon's  prepared,  and  the  guests  are  expected. 
The  handsome  young  host  he  is  gallant  and  gay, 
For  his  love  and  her  friends  will  be  with  him  to-day. 

With  solid  and  dainty  the  table  is  drest. 

The  wine  beams  its  brightest,  the  flowers  bloom  their 

best; 
Yet  the  host  need  not  smile,  and  no  guests  will  appear, 
For  his  sweetheart  is  dead,  as  he  shortly  shall  hear. 

Full  forty  years  since  turned  the  key  in  that  door. 
'T  is  a  room  deaf  and  dumb  'mid  the  city's  uproar. 


594  The  DIRTY  OLD  MAN 

The  guests,  for  whose  joyance  that  table  was  spread, 
May  now  enter  as  ghosts,  for  they're  every  one  dead. 

Through  a  chink  in  the  shutter  dim  lights  come  and 

go; 
The  seats  are  in  order,  the  dishes  a-row: 
But  the  luncheon  was  wealth  to  the  rat  and  the  mouse 
Whose    descendants    have    long    left    the    Dirty   Old 

House. 

Cup  and  platter  are  masked  in  thick  layers  of  dust; 
The  flowers   fallen  to  powder,   the  wine  swathed  in 

crust ; 
A  nosegay  was  laid  before  one  special  chair, 
And  the  faded  blue  ribbon  that  bound  it  lies  there. 

The  old  man  has  played  out  his  parts  in  the  scene. 
Wherever  he  now  is,  I  hope  he's  more  clean. 
Yet  give  we  a  thought  free  of  scofiing  or  ban 
To  that  Dirty  Old  House  and  that  Dirty  Old  Man. 


JIM  BLUDSO,  OF  THE  PRAIRIE  BELLE. 
Copyright,  187 1  and  1890,  by  John  Hay,  Reprinted 
with  permission.     By  JOHN  HAY. 

WALL,  no!  I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 
Because  he  don't  live,  you  see; 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 
The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle? 

He  weren't  no  saint, — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike, — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike ; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row, 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied, — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had, — 

To  treat  his  engine  well ; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river ; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire, — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore, 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip, 

And  her  day  come  at  last, — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  wouldn't  be  passed. 

595 


5q6     JIM    BLUDSO,  of  the   PRAIRIE    BELL 

And  so  she  come  tearin,  along  that  night — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 


The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out. 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
*'ril  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  bumin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell, — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 


He  weren't  no  saint, — but  at  jedgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing, — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then ; 
And  Christ  ain't  a-going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE.  Copyright,  by 
Houghton,  Mifllin  &  Co.  Reprinted  with  permission. 
By  NORA  PERRY. 

IT  is  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
Since  the  day  the  Count  de  Rochambeau — 
Our  ally  against  the  British  crown — 
Met  Washington  in  Newport  town. 

'Twas  the  month  of  March,  and  the  air  was  chill, 
But,  bareheaded,  over  Aquidneck  hill, 
Guest  and  host  they  took  their  way, 
While  on  either  side  in  grand  display 

A  gallant  army,  French  and  fine, 
Was  ranged  three  deep  in  a  glittering  line; 
And  the  French  fleet  sent  a  welcome  roar 
Of  a  hundred  guns  from  Conanicut  shore; 

And  the  bells  rang  out  from  every  steeple. 
And  from  street  to  street  the  Newport  people 
Followed  and  cheered,  with  a  hearty  zest, 
De  Rochambeau  and  his  honored  guest. 

And  women  out  of  the  windows  leant, 
And  out  of  the  windows  smiled  and  sent 
Many  a  coy  admiring  glance 
To  the  fine  young  officers  of  France. 

And  the  story  goes  that  the  belle  of  the  town 
Kissed  a  rose  and  flung  it  down 
Straight  at  the  feet  of  De  Rochambeau ; 
And  the  gallant  Marshal,  bending  low, 

597 


598  The   ROMANCE   of  a   ROSE 

Lifted  it  up  with  a  Frenchman's  grace, 
And  kissed  it  back  with  a  glance  at  the  face 
Of  the  daring  maiden  where  she  stood, 
Blushing  out  of  her  silken  hood. 

That  night  at  the  ball,  still  the  story  goes, 
The  Marshal  of  France  wore  a  faded  rose 
In  his  gold-laced  coat,  but  he  looked  in  vain 
For  the  giver's  beautiful  face  again. 

Night  after  night,  and  day  after  day, 
The  Frenchman  eagerly  sought,  they  say, 
At  feast  or  at  church  or  along  the  street. 
For  the  girl  who  flung  her  rose  at  his  feet, 

And  she,  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
Was  speeding  farther  and  farther  away 
From  the  fatal  window,  the  fatal  street. 
Where  her  passionate  heart  had  suddenly  beat 

A  throb  too  much,  for  the  cool  control 

A  Puritan  teaches  to  heart  and  soul ; 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  wrathful  eyes 

Of  one  who  had  watched  in  dismayed  surprise 

From  the  street  below :  and  taking  the  gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage, 
He  swore,  this  old  colonial  squire. 
That  before  the  daylight  should  expire, 

This  daughter  of  his,  with  her  wit  and  grace, 
Her  dangerous  heart,  and  her  beautiful  face, 


By  NORA   PERRY  599 

Should  be  on  her  way  to  a  sure  retreat, 
Where  no  rose  of  hers  could  fall  at  the  feet 


Of  a  curs6d  Frenchman,  high  or  low: 
And  so  while  the  Count  de  Rochambeau, 
In  his  gold-laced  coat,  wore  a  faded  flower, 
And  waited  the  giver  hour  by  hour, 

She  was  sailing  away  in  the  wild  March  night 
On  the  little  deck  of  the  sloop  "Delight" ; 
Guarded  even  in  the  darkness  there 
By  the  wrathful  eyes  of  a  jealous  care. 

Three  weeks  after,  a  brig  bore  down 

Into  the  harbor  of  Newport  town, 

Towing  a  wreck, — 'twas  the  sloop  "Delight"; 

Off  Hampton  rocks,  in  the  very  sight 

Of  the  land  she  sought,  she  and  her  crew, 
And  all  on  board  of  her,  full  in  view 
Of  the  storm-bound  fishermen  over  the  bay, 
Went  to  their  doom  on  that  April  day. 

When  Rochambeau  heard  the  terrible  tale, 

He  muttered  a  prayer,  for  a  moment  grew  pale. 

Then,   "Mon  Dieu!"  he  exclaimed,  "so  my  fine 

romance, 
From  beginning  to  end,  is  a  rose  and  a  glance!" 

A  rose  and  a  glance,  with  a  kiss  thrown  in ; 
That  was  all, — but  enough  for  a  promise  of  sin. 


6oo  The   ROMANCE   of  a    ROSE 

Thought  the  stern  old  squire,  when  he  took  the 

gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage. 

So  the  sad  old  story  comes  to  a  close : 
'Tis  a  century  since,  but  the  world  still  goes 
On  the  same  base  round,  still  takes  the  gauge 
Of  its  highest  hearts  in  a  moment's  rage. 


IN    AN    ATELIER.      Reprinted    with     permission. 
By  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

I   PRAY  you,  do  not  turn  your  head; 
And  let  your  hands  lie  folded,  so. 
It  was  a  dress  like  this,  wine-red, 
That  troubled  Dante,  long  ago. 
You  don't  know  Dante?     Never  mind. 
He  loved  a  lady  wondrous  fair — 
His  model?     Something  of  the  kind. 
I  wonder  if  she  had  your  hair! 

I  wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek, 
And  was  not  meek  at  all  (my  dear, 
I  want  that  side-light  on  your  cheek). 
He  loved  her,  it  is  very  clear, 
And  painted  her,  as  I  paint  you, 
But  rather  better,  on  the  whole 
(Depress  your  chin;  yes,  that  will  do): 
He  was  a  painter  of  the  soul ! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I  think, 
In  the  INFERNO— devilish  good! 
I'd  make  some  certain  critics  blink 
If  I'd  his  method  and  his  mood.) 
Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance 
Rest  there,  by  that  majolica  tray) — 
Was  Beatrice ;  they  met  by  chance — 
They  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way. 

(As  you  and  I  met,  months  ago. 
Do  you  remember?     How  your  feet 
Went  crinkle-crinkle  on  the  snow 

60 1 


6o2  In  an   ATELIER 

Along  the  bleak  gas-lighted  street ! 
An  instant  in  the  drug-store's  glare 
You  stood  as  in  a  golden  frame, 
And  then  I  swore  it,  then  and  there, 
To  hand  your  sweetness  down  to  fame.) 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed 
(All  this  was  long  before  our  time), 
And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead — 
Such  endless  youth  gives  mortal  rhyme ! 
Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien, 
Pale  Dante,  in  his  soul's  distress; 
And  still  the  lovely  Florentine 
Goes  lovely  in  her  wine-red  dress. 

You  do  not  understand  at  all? 

He  was  a  poet;  on  his  page 

He  drew  her ;  and,  though  kingdoms  fall, 

This  lady  lives  from  age  to  age : 

A  poet — that  means  painter  too, 

For  words  are  colors,  rightly  laid ; 

And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue, 

For  varnish  cracks  and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets — they  are  lucky  ones! 

When  we  are  thrust  upon  the  shelves, 

Our  works  turn  into  skeletons 

Almost  as  quickly  as  ourselves; 

For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length, 

At  length  is  prized — when  all  is  bare : 

"What  grace!"  the  critics  cry,  "what  strength!' 

When  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 


By   THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH  603 

Ah,  Fanny,  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
It  is  so  little  one  can  do ; 
We  talk  our  jargon — live  for  Art! 
I'd  much  prefer  to  live  for  you. 
How  dull  and  lifeless  colors  are ! 
You  smile,  and  all  my  picture  lies: 
I  wish  that  I  could  crush  a  star 
To  make  a  pigment  for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I  know  I'm  out  of  tune; 
The  light  is  bad ;  the  sky  is  gray : 
I  paint  no  more  this  afternoon, 
So  lay  your  royal  gear  away. 
Besides,  you're  moody — chin  on  hand — 
I  know  not  what — not  in  the  vein — 
Not  like  Anne  Bullen,  sweet  and  bland: 
You  sit  there  smiling  in  disdain. 

Not  like  the  Tudor's  radiant  Queen, 
Unconscious  of  the  coming  woe. 
But  rather  as  she  might  have  been, 
Preparing  for  the  headsman's  blow. 
So,  I  have  put  you  in  a  miff — 
Sitting  bolt-upright,  wrist  on  wrist. 
How  should  you  look?     Why,  dear,  as  if — 
Somehow — as  if  you'd  just  been  kissed! 


CARCASSONNE.      (From  the   French.)      Reprinted 
with  permission.     By  M.  E.  W.  SHERWOOD. 

HOW  old  I  am!      I'm  eighty  years.     I've  worked 
both  hard  and  long, 
Yet  patient  as  my  life  has  been,  one  dearest  sight  I 

have  not  seen. 
It  almost  seems  a  wrong.     A  dream  I  had  when  life 

was  young. 
Alas!  our  dreams,  they  come  not  true. 
I  thought  to  see  fair  Carcassonne, 
That  lovely  city,  Carcassonne. 

One  sees  it  dimly  from  the  height  beyond  the  moun- 
tain blue. 

Fain  would  I  walk  five  weary  leagues,  I  do  not  mind 
the  road's  fatigues. 

Thro'  morn  and  evening's  dew. 

But  bitter  frosts  would  fall  at  night,  and  on  the  grapes 
that  withered  blight, 

I  could  not  go  to  Carcassonne, 

I  never  went  to  Carcassonne. 

They  say  it  is  as  gay  all  times  as  holidays  at  home. 
The  gentles  ride  in  gay  attire,  and  in  the  sun  each 

gilded  spire 
Shoots  up  like  those  at  Rome. 
The  bishop  the    procession  leads,   the  generals  curb 

their  prancing  steeds. 
Alas !  I  saw  not  Carcassonne. 
Alas!  I  know  not  Carcassonne. 

Our  vicar's  right.  He  preaches  loud  and  bids  us  to 
beware. 

604 


By   M.   E.   W.   SHERWOOD  605 

He  says,  "Oh,  guard  the  weakest  part  and  most  the 

traitor  in  the  heart 
Against  ambition's  snare." 
Perhaps  in  autumn  I  can  find  two  sunny  days  with 

gentle  wind, 
I  then  could  go  to  Carcassonne, 
I  still  could  go  to  Carcassonne. 

My   God   and   Father,    pardon   me,    if    this  my   wish 

offends. 
One  sees  some  hope  more  high  than  he  in  age,  as  in 

his  infancy 
To  which  his  heart  ascends. 
My  wife,  my  son  have  seen  Narbonne,  my  grandson 

went  to  Perpignan, 
But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, 
But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne. 

Thus  sighed  a  peasant  bent  with  age,  half  dreaming 
in  his  chair. 

I  said,  "My  friend,  come,  go  with  me  to-morrow. 
Thine  eyes  shall  see  those  streets 

That  seem  so  fair." 

That  night  there  came  for  passing  soul  the  church- 
bell's  low  and  solemn  toll. 

He  never  saw  gay  Carcassonne. 

Who  has  not  known  a  Carcassonne? 


AN  ODE  TO    THE    ASSERTORS  OF    LIBERTY. 
By  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

ARISE,  arise,  arise! 
There  is  blood  on  the  earth  that  denies  ye  bread ! 
Be  your  wounds  like  eyes 
To  weep  for  the  dead,  the  dead,  the  dead. 
What  other  grief  were  it  just  to  pay? 
Your  sons,  your  wives,  your  brethren,  were  they ! 
Who  said  they  were  slain  on  the  battle-day? 

Awaken,  awaken,  awaken! 
The  slave  and  the  tyrant  are  twin-born  foes. 

Be  the  cold  chains  shaken 
To  the  dust  where  your  kindred  repose,  repose : 
Their  bones  in  the  grave  will  start  and  move 
When  they  hear  the  voices  of  those  they  love 
Most  loud  in  the  holy  combat  above. 

Wave,  wave  high  the  banner 
When  Freedom  is  riding  to  conquest  by: 

Though  the  slaves  that  fan  her 
Be  Famine  and  Toil,  giving  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  ye  who  attend  her  imperial  car, 
Lift  not  your  hands  in  the  banded  war 
But  in  her  defence  whose  children  ye  are. 

Glory,  glory,  glory, 
To  those  who  have  greatly  suffered  and  done ! 

Never  name  in  story 
Was  greater  than  that  which  ye  shall  have  won. 
Conquerors  have  conquered  their  foes  alone, 
Whose  revenge,   pride,   and  power,   they  have    over- 
thrown : 
Ride  ye,  more  victorious,  over  your  own. 

.   606 


By   PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY  607 

Bind,  bind  every  brow 
With  crownals  of  violet,  ivy  and  pine : 

Hide  the  blood-stains  now 
With  hues  which  sweet  Nature  has  made  divine — 
Green  strength,  azure  hope,  and  eternity. 
But  let  not  the  pansy  among  them  be ; 
Ye  were  injured,  and  that  means  memory. 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.  Reprinted  with 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Messrs,  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Company.  By  OLIVER  WENDELL 
HOLMES. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare. 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door. 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 

608 


By   OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES        609 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  bom 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 


RORY  O'MORE.     By  SAMUEL  LOVER. 

YOUNG  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn; 
He  was  bold  as  the  hawk,  and  she  soft  as  the 
dawn ; 
He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 
"Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye ; 
"With  your  tricks,  I  don't  know,  in  throth,  what  I'm 

about ; 
Faith,  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside 

out." 
"Och!  jewel!"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day; 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "don't  think  of  the 

like. 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike ; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound"— 
"Faith!"   says   Rory,   "I'd  rather  love  you  than  the 

ground," 
"Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go: 
Sure,  I  dream  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so!" 
"Och!"  says  Rory,  "that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear. 
For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear. 
Och,  jewel,  keep  dhreaming  that  same  till  you  die. 
And  bright  morning  will   give  dirty  night  the  black 

lie! 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

6 10 


By   SAMUEL    LOVER  6n 

"Arrah,    Kathleen,    my    darlint,    you've    teased    me 

enough ; 
Sure,  I've  thrashed,  for  your  sake,  Dinny  Grimes  and 

Jim  Duff; 
And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a 

baste, 
So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck. 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck ; 
And  he  looked  in  her  eyes,  that  were  beaming  with 

light. 
And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips — Don't  you  think  he  was 

right? 
"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir — you'll  hug  me  no  more, — 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kissed  me  before." 
"Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make  sure, 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 


MUSIC  AND  WORDS.  From  "Five  Books  of 
Song."  Reprinted  with  the  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers, The  Century  Company.  By  RICHARD 
WATSON  GILDER. 

THIS  day  I  heard  such  music  that  I  thought, 
Hath    human    speech    the     power    thus    to    be 
wrought 
Into  such  melody;  pure,  sensuous  sound, — 
Into  such  mellow,  murmuring  mazes  caught ; 
Can  words  (I  said),  when  these  keen  tones  are  bound 
(Silent,  except  in  memory  of  this  hour), — 
Can  human  words  alone  usurp  the  power 
Of  trembling  strings  that  thrill  to  the  very  soul, 
And  of  this  ecstasy  bring  back  the  whole? 

Ah  no,  'twas  answered  in  my  inmost  heart, 
Unto  itself  sufficient  is  each  art, 
And  each  doth  utter  what  none  other  can, — 
Some  hidden  mood  of  the  large  soul  of  man. 
Ah,  think  not  thou  with  words  well  interweaved 
To  wake  the  tones  wherein  the  viol  grieved 
With  its  most  heavy  burden ;  think  not  thou, 
Adventurous,  to  push  thy  shallop's  prow 
Into  that  surge  of  well-remembered  tones, — 
Striving  to  match  each  wandering  wind  that  moans, 
Each  bell  that  tolls,  and  every  bugle's  blowing 
With  some  most  fitting  word,  some  verse  bestowing 
A  never-shifting  form  on  that  which  passed 
Swift  as  a  bird  that  glimmers  down  the  blast. 

So,  still  unworded,  save  in  memory  mute. 
Rest  thou  sweet  hour  of  viol  and  of  lute; 
Of  thoughts  that  never,  never  can  be  spoken, 

612 


By  RICHARD   WATSON    GILDER  613 

Too  frail  for  the  rough  usage  of  men's  words, — 
Thoughts  that  shall  keep  their  silence  all  unbroken 
Till  music  once  more  stirs  them, — then  like  the  birds 
That  in  the  night-time  slumber,  they  shall  wake, 
While  all  the  leaves  of  all  the  forest  shake ! 
Oh,  hark!  I  hear  it  now,  that  tender  strain, 
Fulfilled  with  all  of  sorrow  save  its  pain. 


LINES    TO    A    FRIEND.       By    JAMES    BERRY 
BENSEL. 

I   STOOD  with  my  hand  in  my  friend's  warm  "hand- 
He  was  going  away  from  me — 
I  thought:  "  'Tis  not  only  the  distance  of  land 
That  will  shut  out  this  face  with  its  strength  to  com- 
mand, 
Nor  the  terrible  distance  of  sea. 

"Long  years  will  roll  up  with  their  pains  and  their 
fears, 

Great  griefs  and  great  pleasures  will  rise, 
The  mountains  of  joy  and  the  rivers  of  tears,— 
Whole  ages  of  living  will  fill  up  the  years. 

And  change  lay  its  touch  on  our  eyes. ' ' 

He  was  going,  and  when  would  a  hand  clasp  my  own 

With  friendship  as  loving  and  true^ 
What  wonder  I  felt  so  bereft  and  alone ; 
My  blessing  died  out  in  a  passionate  moan, 

While  tears  rimmed  my  lashes  like  dew? 

He  went ;  but  there  stretches  between  us  a  line 

Like  an  echo  that  follows  a  song. 
And  nothing  can  deaden  the  music  so  fine 
That  whispers  of  friendship  from  his  heart  to  mine 

Through  distance  and  years  that  are  long. 

And  what  though  fate  wills  that  we  never  shall  meet 

On  earth  as  in  days  I  recall? 
Still  memory  stays  with  its  messages  sweet. 
Still  thought  has  old  tales  and  old  lines  to  repeat, 

And  his  face  shineth  forth  from  them  all. 

614 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE.   By  ROBERT 
SOUTHEY. 

Note. — All  persons  who  are  in  the  habit  of  dropping  the  final 
g  of  words  should  be  required  to  repeat  this  poem  till  cured  of  that 
distressing  though  common  barbarism  of  speech. — The  Editor. 

HOW  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore?" 
My  little  boy  asked  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time ; 
And  moreover  he  tasked  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 
Anon  at  the  word, 
There  first  came  one  daughter, 
And  then  came  another, 

To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother, 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 

So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 
For  of  rhymes  I  had  store ; 
And  'twas  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing; 
Because  I  was  Laureate 
To  them  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 

615 


6i6  The  CATARACT  of  LODORE 

From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 
Its  rills  and  its  gills ; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake. 
And  thence  at  departing, 
Awakening  and  starting. 
It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds, 
Through  meadow  and  glade. 

In  Sun  and  in  shade. 
And  through  the  wood-shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry, 
Here  it  comes  sparkling. 
And  there  it  lies  darkling; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in. 
Till  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent. 

It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 
vStriking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 
Rising  and  leaping. 
Sinking  and  creeping, 


By  ROBERT    vSOUTHEY  617 

Swelling  and  sweeping, 
Showering  and  springing, 

Flying  and  flinging, 
Writhing  and  ringing, 
Eddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting. 

Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound : 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in ; 
Confounding,  astounding. 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 
^Receding  and  speeding, 
And  shocking  and  rocking. 
And  darting  and  parting. 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing. 
And  dripping  and  skipping. 
And  hitting  and  splitting 
And  shining  and  twining, 
And  rattling  and  battling, 
And  shaking  and  quaking. 
And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving. 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning, 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 


6i8  The  CATARACT  of  LODORE 

And  working  and  jerking, 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving. 
And  moaning  and  groaning; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 
And  gathering  and  feathering. 
And  whitening  and  brightening. 
And  quivering  and  shivering. 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying. 
And  thundering  and  floundering; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding, 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling. 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving. 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling. 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering ; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting. 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying, 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing, 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling. 
And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and  beam- 
ing. 
And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing, 
And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping. 
And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jump- 
ing, 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing ; 


By  ROBERT    SOUTHEY  619 

And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 
Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending, 
All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar. 
And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore, 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT.    By  ROBERT  BROWNING 


THE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

II. 
Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match. 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  and  fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each! 


PARTING  AT  MORNING. 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's  rim: 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him. 
And  the  need  of  a  w'orld  of  men  for  me. 


620 


SONGS  FROM  "THE  PRINCESS."     By  ALFRED, 
LORD  TENNYSON. 

O   SWALLOW,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

"O  tell  her.  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North, 

"O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow,  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill. 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

"O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in. 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

"Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green? 

"O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown: 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

"O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long. 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

"O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods. 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  v/oo  her,  and  make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  1  follow  thee." 

621 


62  2  SONGS  from  "  The  PRINCESS  " 

"Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 


The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


By  ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON  623 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elf  land  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  v/estem  sea. 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


PIPES  AND  BEER.  From  "Fantasy  and  Passion." 
Copyright,  1898.  Reprinted  with  permission.  By 
EDGAR  FAWCETT. 

BEFORE  I  was  famous  I  used  to  sit 
In  a  dull  old  underground  room  I  knew, 
And  sip  cheap  beer,  and  be  glad  for  it, 
With  a  wild  Bohemian  friend  or  two. 

And  oh,  it  was  joy  to  loiter  thus, 

At  peace  in  the  heart  of  the  city's  stir, 
Entombed,  while  life  hurried  over  us, 

In  our  lazy  bacchanal  sepulchre. 

There  was  artist  George,  with  the  blond  Greek  head, 
And  the  startling  creeds,  and  the  loose  cravat; 

There  was  splenetic,  journalistic  Fred, 
Of  the  sharp  retort  and  the  shabby  hat ; 

There  was  dreamy  Frank,  of  the  lounging  gait, 

Who  lived  on  nothing  a  year,  or  less. 
And  always  meant  to  be  something  great. 

But  only  meant,  and  smoked  to  excess; 

And  last  myself,  whom  their  funny  sneers 
Annoyed  no  whit  as  they  laughed  and  said, 

"I  listened  to  all  their  grand  ideas 
And  wrote  them  out  for  my  daily  bread. ' ' 

The  Teuton  beer-bibbers  came  and  went, 
Night  after  night,  and  stared,  good  folk. 

At  our  table,  noisy  with  argument, 
And  our  chronic  aureoles  of  smoke. 

624 


By  EDGAR    FAWCETT  625 

And  oh,  my  life !  but  we  all  loved  well 
The  talk,  free,  fearless,  keen,  profound, 

The  rockets  of  wit  that  flashed  and  fell 
In  that  dull  old  tavern  underground !  .  .  . 

But  there  came  a  change  in  my  days  at  last, 

And  fortune  forgot  to  starve  and  stint, 
And  the  people  chose  to  admire  aghast 

The  book  I  had  eaten  dirt  to  print. 

And  new  friends  gathered  about  me,  then. 
New  voices  summoned  me  there  and  here  ; 

The  world  went  down  in  my  dingy  den, 

And  drew  me  forth  from  the  pipes  and  beer. 

I  took  the  stamp  of  my  altered  lot. 

As  the  sands  of  the  certain  seasons  ran. 

And  slowly,  whether  I  would  or  not, 
I  felt  myself  growing  a  gentleman. 

But  now  and  then  I  would  break  the  thrall, 
I  would  yield  to  a  pang  of  dumb  regret, 

And  steal  to  join  them,  and  find  them  all, 
With  the  amber  wassail  near  them  yet. 

Find,  and  join  them,  and  try  to  seem 
A  fourth  for  the  old  queer  merry  three, 

With  my  fame  as  much  of  a  yearning  dream 
As  my  morrow's  dinner  was  wont  to  be. 

But  the  wit  would  lag,  and  the  mirth  would  lack, 

And  the  god  of  jollity  hear  no  call. 
And  the  prosperous  broadcloth  on  my  back 

Hung  over  their  spirits  like  a  pall! 


626  PIPES  and  BEER 

It  was  not  that  they  failed,  each  one,  to  try 
Their  warmth  of  welcome  to  speak  and  show; 

I  should  just  have  risen  and  said  good-bye, 
With  a  haughty  look,  had  they  served  me  so. 

It  was  rather  that  each  would  seem,  instead, 
With  not  one  vestige  of  spleen  or  pride, 

Across  a  chasm  of  change  to  spread 
His  greeting  hands  to  the  further  side. 

And  our  gladdest  words  rang  strange  and  cold, 
Like  the  echoes  of  other  long-lost  words; 

And  the  nights  were  no  more  the  nights  of  old 
Than  spring  would  be  spring  without  the  birds! 

So  they  waned  and  waned,  these  visits  of  mine, 
Till  I  married  the  heiress,  ending  here. 

For  if  caste  approves  the  cigars  and  wine, 

She  must  frown  perforce  upon  pipes  and  beer. 

And  now  'tis  years  since  I  saw  these  men, 
Years  since  I  knew  them  living  yet. 

And  of  this  alone  I  am  sure,  since  then — 
That  none  has  gained  what  he  toiled  to  get. 

For  I  keep  strict  watch  on  the  world  of  art, 
And  George,  with  his  wide  rich-dowered  brain! 

His  fervent  fancy,  his  ardent  heart. 
Though  he  greatly  toiled,  has  toiled  in  vain. 

And  Fred,  for  all  he  may  sparkle  bright 

In  caustic  column,  in  clever  quip, 
Of  a  truth  must  still  be  hiding  his  light 

Beneath  the  bushel  of  journalship. 


By  EDGAR   FAWCETT  627 

And  dreamy  Frank  must  be  dreaming  still, 

Lounging  through  life,  if  yet  alive, 
Smoking  his  vast  preposterous  fill. 

Lounging,  smoking,  striving  to  strive. 

And  I,  the  fourth  in  that  old  queer  throng, 

Fourth  and  least,  as  my  soul  avows, — 
I  alone  have  been  counted  strong, 

I  alone  have  the  laurelled  brows! 

Well,  and  what  has  it  all  been  worth? 

May  not  my  soul  to  my  soul  confess 
That  "succeeding,"  here  upon  earth, 

Does  not  alway  assume  success? 

I  would  cast,  and  gladly,  from  this  gray  head 
Its  crown,  to  regain  one  sweet  lost  year 

With  artist  George,  with  splenetic  Fred, 
With  dreamy  Frank,  with  the  pipes  and  beer; 


LIST   OF   AUTHORS 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey. 

AUingham,  William. 

Ames,  Fisher. 

Anonymous. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  The 
Reverend. 

Bensel,  James  Berry. 

Boston  Herald,  The. 

Boucicault,  Dion. 

Browning, Elizabeth  Barrett. 

Browning,  Robert. 

Bulwer,  Sir  Henry  Lytton. 

Burke,  Edmund. 

Byron,  George  Gordon,  Lord. 

Calhoun,  John  Caldwell. 

Capen,  Elmer  Hewitt,  The  Rev- 
erend. 

Carlyle,  Thomas, 

Cass,  Lewis. 

Castelar,  Emilio. 

Cavazza,  E. 

Chidwick,  John  P.,  The  Rev- 
erend. 

Choate,  Rufus. 

Choate,  Joseph  H. 

Clay,  Henry. 

Coffin,  Robert  Barry, 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor, 

Corwin,  Thomas. 

Cowper,  William. 

Curtis,  George  Wilham. 

Depew,  Chauncey  Mitchell. 

Dickens,  Charles, 


Dumas,  Alexander. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

Everett,  Edward. 

Fawcett,  Edgar. 

Field,  Kate. 

Gautier,  Theophile. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson, 

Gladstone,  William  Ewart 

Godwin,  Parke. 

Goethe,  John  Wolfgang  von, 

Gosse,  Edmund. 

Grady,  Henry  W, 

Grant,  Robert. 

Gray,  Thomas. 

Griggs,  John  W, 

Hall,  Arthur  Dudley. 

Hay,  John. 

Hazlitt,  William. 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth. 

Hoar,  Sherman, 

Holcroft,  Thomas. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

Hope,  Anthony. 

Howe,  Julia  Ward. 

Howland,  Henry  E, 

Hood,  Thomas. 

Hughes,  Thomas, 

Hugo,  Victor, 

Hunt,  Leigh. 

Irving,  Washington. 

James,  Henry, 

Jefferson,  Thomas, 

Jest  Book,  The, 


628 


LIST    OF    AUTHORS 


629 


Keats,  John. 

Kemble,  Frances  Anne. 

Korner,  Charles  Theodore. 

Kossuth,  Louis. 

Lamb,  Charles. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage. 

Lincoln,  Abraham. 

Lodge.  Henry  Cabot. 

Long,  John  D. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

Lover,  Samuel. 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington, 
Lord. 

MacNally,  Leonard. 

Mansfield,  Richard. 

Marlowe,  Christopher. 

Maupassant,  Guy  de. 

Mayhew,  Jonathan,  The  Rever- 
end. 

McKenzie,  Alexander,  The 
Reverend. 

Meredith,  George. 

M.  H.  G. 

Milton,  John. 

Mirabeau,  Honor6,  Comte  de. 

Morris,  Gouverneur. 

Perry,  Nora. 

Phillips,  Wendell. 


Pee,  Edgar  Allan. 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore. 
Rostand,  Edmond. 
Schurz,  Carl. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter. 
Seward,  William  H. 
Shakspere,  William. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe. 
Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley. 
Sherwood,  M.  E.  W. 
Sill,  Edward  Rowland. 
Sophocles. 
Southey,  Robert. 
Spectator,  The. 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 
Stoddard,  Richard  Henry. 
Sumner,  Charles. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord. 
Thackeray,  William  Make- 
peace. 
Tolstoi,  Leo,  Count. 
Washington,  Booker  T. 
Webster,  Daniel. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf. 
Wiggin,  Kate  Douglas. 
Winter,  William. 
Wordsworth,  William. 
Zola,  Emile. 


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